ua 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
ALEXANDER   F  MORRISON 


PlllLOSOPIII'RS  AND  ACTRESSES. 


By    ARSENE     HOUSSAYE. 


^Villi  braatifulh  rii;;rav(>(l  portraits  of  Voltaire  and  IHadamc  de  Parabcre. 


coy  TEXTS: 


THK  HOUSE  OF  SCAKUON. 
ViihlAllli;, 

ViM/rAiuii  Axn  MLLi;.  he  nviiv. 

ASI'ASIA  »THK  KEl'Ulil.IC  01-"  PLATO). 
MADEMOI.-^ELLIO  OAUfiSlN. 
CALL'  IT.  LA  TOUU. 

KAOUL  AND  GADUIHI.LK. 
MADE.MOISKLLI',   I)ii  .MAIUVAUX. 
TH1-;    .MAHnilONKSS-  CAI'lllCI'.S. 
THEMl.Sl'lllCSSUFUOUNILLE.SUlITJT. 
C1I.\.MI()KT. 


AllKLARl)  ANM)  ITELOLSE. 

TllK   DHATH   OF  ANDUE  OHENIEH. 

THE  MAItyUlS  DE  ST.  AULAIUE. 

COLLE. 

THE  DAUGHTER  OP  SEDAINE. 

FRUn!K)N. 

I'.L.^NGINl. 

AN  UNKNOWN  SCULPTOa. 

VANDYKE. 

SAPI'HO. 

A   LOST  POET. 


HANDS  FILLED  WITH  ROSES.  FILLED  WITH  GOLD,  FILLED  WITH  BLOOD. 

THE  HUNDRKD  AND  ONE  IMCTQllES  OF  TAUDIF,  !•  KlEND  OF  (MLLOT. 

THREE   I'.VGES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MADAME   DE  PAKAUERE. 

DIALOGUES  OP  THE  DEAD  UPON  THE  LIVING. 


"The  title  of  Ars.''ne  lloussaye's  volume  is  not  to  be  literally  undcratoofL 
Tli-TL-  id  more  iii  it  than  falM  at  first  upon  tlie  tyiiipaiiuui  of  our  intelligence.  Tlie 
sc'.'ue  anil  aeiiou  of  the  book  are  by  no  means  restricted  to  academic  K''ove8  and 
th'-atri  'al  g.een-rooms.  Its  author  allows  hinu(  If  jj.  I'ater  latitude.  .Vdopting  a 
trittt  mottii,  he  declares  the  world  a  stage.  His  i)lillo.sophers  and  actresses  com- 
prisj  a  multitude  of  classes  an  J  characters  ;  he  linds  them  everywhere.  Artists 
and  thinkers,  women  of  fashion  and  frequenters  of  courts,  the  lover  of  seifnce 
and  tlie  favored  of  wit  and  beauty— the  majority  of  all  these,  aicordlng  to  his 
fantastical  preface,  are  philosophers  and  actresses.  Only  on  the  stage  and  at  the 
Sorbonue,  he  luaUclously  remarks,  few  aeti-esses  and  philo.sopliers  are  to  be  found." 

—lildckwood's  ila(jazim. 

"We  have  here  the  most  charming  book  we  have  read  these  many  days. — so 
powerful  in  its  fascination  that  we  have  b  ■en  held  for  hours  fiom  our  imperious 
lal)ors,  or  nceilfui  slumbers,  by  the  entrancing  iniliience  of  its  pages.  One  of  the 
most  desirable  fruits  of  the  proUIlc  field  of  literature  of  the  present  season." 

—Kvlectic. 

''Two  brilliant  and  fascinating— we  had  almost  said,  bewitching— volumes, 
combining  information  and  amusement,  the  lightest  gossip,  with  solid  and  ser- 
viceable wisdom." 


•'  It  is  a  most  admirable  book,  full  of  originality,  wit.  Information,  and  philoso- 
phy Indeed,  the  vividness  of  the  book  is  extraordinary.  The  scenes  and  descrip- 
tions are  alisolately  life-like."— Ai^^Twrt/  G'lZflU: 


Two  volumes,  benutifully  printed  on  superfine  paper,  tinil  eleyantly 
hinttifl,  tin if'oriii  ifitit  this  volume,     Price  $4,00, 

Sent  by  mail,  post-paid,  on  recLipt  of  price, 

.'^         (;.  W.   DILLINGHAM,   Tublislipr.   NEW    YORK, 
^^jgfj  Successor  to  O.  W.  CAKLETON  &  CO. 


LOiDiae    ^y 


MEN  AND   WOMEN 


OF    THE 


EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


BY 

ARSENE   HOUSSAYE 
li 


PART  I. 


3    »      11 


NEW   YORK: 

G.    W.   Dillingha7it,   Publisher, 

Successor  to  G.  W.  Carleton  &  Co. 
LONDON  :  S.  I.ow,  SON  &  CO. 

Mnccci-.wxvi. 

5   1  i  ■"  i'  i  ••'•■"'  i  >  » 


CorYRiGiiT,  i88fi,  nv 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM. 


TROWS 

PntNTINO  AND  BOOKDIflOING  COMPANTi 

ftEW  YOHK. 


CO 


o 
2 


ion 

H 


Introduction pace      5 


N      DaFRESNY 11 

«v 

g        FONTENELLE 46 

as 

Marivaux 7fi 

PiRON S9 

The  Abbe  Prevost 122 

Gentil-Eernard 137 

Florian 151 

boufflers 173 

.       RiVAROL 197 

^       Chevalier  de  la  Clos 22o 

2       Gretry 245 

§       Diderot 280 

1^       Boucher 292 

®        Lantara 334 

Louis  XV 352 

Mademoisei-le  de  Camargo 372 

Mademoiselle  Guimard,  a  Goddess  of  the  Opera 396 

Sophie  Arnould 420 

M  arie-Antoinettf 437 

430137 


TNTUODUCTION. 


An  ancient  sage  has  represented  human  reason  under 
the  lorm  oi"  an  adventuress  in  rags  resting  in  the  evening 
upon  ruins.  Can  we  not  thus  represent  the  Philosophy 
of  the  eighteenth  century  ?  She  has  penetrated  the  tem- 
ple—  she  has  there  inscribed  her  name;  but  the  temple 
is  naught  but  a  majestic  ruin.  In  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, wit  destroyed  the  heart,  reason  destroyed  poetry. 
Alter  the  reign  of  Pascal,  who  sought  God  in  a  future 
life,  is  the  reign  of  Voltaire,  who,  forgetting  God,  stud- 
ed  only  human  life.  The  heart  beat  no  more;  wit  de- 
voured all.  The  seventeenth  century  was  the  slave  of 
heaven  ;  the  eighteenth  century  proclaimed  itself  free, 
and  broke  the  golden  chains  which  joined  heaA'en  to  earth. 
Enslaved,  it  had  the  voluptuousness  of  endurance  :  free,  it 
stretched  its  arms,  and  found  but  vacuity.  Pascal  saw  the 
abyss  under  his  feet,  but  he  also  saw  heaven  beyond  the 
abyss      Voltaire  saw  not  the  abyss,  neither  did  he  see  the 

I* 


b  INTRODUCTIOIT. 

heaven  beyond.  Tlio  sackcloth  brought  Pascal  near  tc 
eternal  life  :  the  pleasures  of  this  world  estranged  Voltaire 
from  the  joys  of  heaven. 

Human  reason,  whether  represented  by  Pascal  or  Vol- 
taire, wlu'llu-r  il  prays  or  jests,  whether  it  inclines  or 
raises  ils  head,  is  not  paramount.  A  modern  thinker  has 
said:  "The  nineteenth  century  can  not  be  condemned 
to  sacrifice  philosopliy  to  religion,  nor  religion  to  philoso- 
phy ;  the  heaven  to  earth,  nor  earth  to  heaven  ;  man  to 
God,  nor  God  to  man."  God  aiid  m^n,-- — heaven  and 
earth,  can  act  in  concert;  they  do  act  in  concert,  in  spite 
of  all  the  systems  known  to  fame  ;  but  the  religion  of  the 
seventeenth  century  and  the  philosophy  of  the  eighteenth, 
which  at  this  day  are  yet  at  the  bar  more  ardent  than  ever, 
are  not  reconciled  :  God  is  on  neither  side  ;  God  is  every- 
where, except  ill  the  heart  that  restrains  the  faith  —  the 
heart  that  consumes  the  soul. 

But  here  is  not  the  place  to  erect  a  doctrine  upon  the 
quicksand  of  fancy.  If,  as  has  been  said,  human  life  is 
the  dream  of  God,  God  it  can  likewise  be  said  is  the  dream 
of  man.  All  the  minds  that  he  has  dazzled  with  his  light 
have  sought  to  follow  him  in  his  eternal  works.  I  have 
only  wished  to  indicate  at  the  commencement  of  this  work 
from  what  point  of  view  I  have  contemplated  the  eigh- 
teenth century  under  its  serious  aspect.  The  eighteenih 
century  has  given  birth  to  the  revolution  ;  the  revolution 
has  created  a  new  world  upon  the  ruins  of  the  old ;  we 
have  come  out  of  it  still  more  free  than  our  fathers  the  en- 
cyclopaidists.  With  liberty  let  us  advance.  The  world 
is  ours,  but  the  light  of  the  world  is  with  God. 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

't  is  the  contrasts  which  strike  us  most  in  the  eighteenth 
century :  the  gay  rays  which  lighted  a  court  of  thorough 
voluptuaries,  regarding  neither  law  nor  gospel,  soon  lighted 
a  people  armed  with  antique  virtues,  combating  an  entire 
world  more  by  their  audacity  than  their  arms.  Strange  age  ! 
—  each  year  surprises  you  by  its  grandeur  and  its  mean- 
ness, by  its  strength  and  its  cowardice,  by  its  philosophy 
and  its  fanaticism.  Yonder  is  a  rustic  masquerade  of  Ver- 
sailles, or  a  masked  ball  of  the  Palais-Royal.  Here, 
Louis  the  Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth  on  their  sad  death-beds, 
Marat  at  the  tribune,  Marie  Antoinette  at  the  guillotine  , 
Dufresny  spending  millions  to  cause  roses  to  bloom,  at  the 
side  of  Fontenelle,  who  hoards  his  wit  and  his  money; 
Piron,  whom  Rembrandt  would  have  loved  to  paint,  look- 
ing through  the  windows  of  a  pothouse  at  Marivaux  in  a 
carriage  going  to  have  his  portrait  taken  by  La  Tour.  The 
Abbe  Prevost  passes  with  his  dear  Manon  —  the  truest 
passion  of  the  age  —  before  Gentil-Bernard,  who  flutters 
from  one  amour  to  another.  Voltaire  laughs  at  every- 
thing, while  Jean  Jacques  weeps  over  everything.  Dide- 
rot builds  his  temple  with  herculean  arms  ;  Boutllers,  with 
his  "  Queen  of  Golconda,"  mocks  the  architect.  Boucher 
divests  painting  of  feeling,  and  Gretry  finds  it  again  in 
music.  The  King  Louis  XV.  making  pretty  verses,  in 
juxtaposition  with  the  poet  Bernis  who  governs  France. 
Marie-Antoinette  acts  comedy  at  the  Trianon,  while  Mad- 
emoiselle Clairon  plays  royalty  at  Paris. 

Until  now,  historians  have  oidy  seen  kings  and  heroes 
in  the  history  of  :i  nation  ;  poets  and  painters,  who  are  in- 
timately connected    with,  and    who   ;ire   most   always  the 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

glory  and  the  joy  of  il,  h:ivo  been  neglected,  like  barret 
weeds  and  (lowers  without  perfunie.  History  is  a  com- 
edy, where  everybody  has  a  part  :  if  the  historian  forgets 
a  single  actor,  the  piece  is  a  failure.  To  forget  the  rep- 
resentatives of  art,  is  it  not  to  suppress  the  scenes  where 
the  sun  shines,  where  the  rose  opens,  where  Nature  chants 
Ikm'  hvmn  of  love  ? 

I  shall,  without  doubt,  be  reproached  for  having  studied 
with  the  same  sfilicilude  the  works  and  life  of  the  philoso- 
plicr,  of  the  poet,  and  of  the  painter.  Until  now,  critics 
have  studied  the  works  more  seriously  ihan  the  life.  It 
nmst  be  admitted,  however,  that  the  passions  of  all  men 
poetically  endowed,  are  still  a  study  worthy  of  an  enlight- 
ened curiosity.  Is  there  not  often  more  poetry  to  be  gath- 
ered in  the  heart  that  beats,  than  in  the  book  that  rhymes? 

I  gave  myself  up  with  passion  to  this  study  of  man  in 
the  poet.  I  sought  truth  wherever  it  was  to  be  found  — 
less  in  books  than  in  newspapers  and  pamphlets,  less  in 
pamphlets  and  newspapers  than  in  printed  and  autograph 
letters.  I  put  in  operation  another  species  of  study  :  every 
time  that  I  met  in  the  world  a  man  or  a  woman  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  I  tritid  to  read  with  open  book  their  rec- 
ollections. Thus  I  have  put  my  hand  upon  the  heart  of 
the  age  ;  I  have  reanimated  the  illustrious  dead.  By  living 
familiarly  with  them,  I  have  seen  them  in  a  musing  or  smi- 
ling mood :  they  have  spoken  to  me  as  to  an  old  friend. 

There  is  to-day  in  France  and  Germany  a  new  art, 
called  criticism.  The  criticism  of  the  last  age  was  a  cav- 
illing old  maid,  who  traduced  the  heart  without  ever  hav- 
ing loved.     She  did  not  create  ;  she  was  contented  to  ana- 


rNrTEODUCTION.  9 

lyze  grammar  ii.  hand,  and  saw  no  further  than  the  book 
opcr  beneath  her  eyes.  To-day,  criticism  has  become 
herself  creative  ;  she  has  become  enamored  of  the  worship 
of  ideas  ;  she  stirs  them  up,  and  disseminates  them.  The 
book  which  she  analyzes  is  now  but  the  starting-point,  for 
her  domain  is  everywhere  ;  philosophy,  art,  science,  poe- 
try—  her  boundary  is  the  infinite.  Formerly,  criticism 
was  but  the  official  report  of  the  beauties  and  defects  of  a 
work  :  to-day,  criticism  is  itself  a  work.  It  is  great  and 
generous ;  such  a  book  has  become  celebrated  because  it 
has  been  pleased  to  find  in  it,  symbols  and  ideas  which  are 
not  there.  In  France,  the  reviews  have  been  the  cradle 
of  this  style  of  criticism,  it  has  grown  up  under  strong 
and  patient  hands,  become  the  safeguard  of  the  French 
mind,  and  it  can  be  said  of  it,  that  '  Criticism,  the  daughter  of 
ancient  literature,  is  the  mother  of  the  literatures  to  come.' 

This  book  has  been  written  little  by  little,  and  from  time 
to  time  ;  I  was  only  guided  by  the  ardor  or  the  fantasy  of 
the  moment,  becoming  enamored  at  one  time  with  a  stern, 
then  with  a  smiling  physiognomy,  but  always  with  the  idea 
of  some  day  completing  the  gallery.  It  will  be  seen  that 
I  have  not  sided  with  any  of  the  schools  of  literature  or 
philosophy  that  have  had  a  reputation  in  France. 

The  eighteenth  century  attracted  me  at  an  early  age. 
How  often  have  I  imagined  myself  taking  part  in  the  love- 
adventures  of  the  regency,  in  the  literary  debates  of  the 
Cafe  Procope,  in  the  pastorals  of  Versailles,  in  the  carnival 
of  wit  and  love,  in  the  startling  fame  of  the  Encyclopaedia, 
and  in  the  heroic  tragedy  of  the  French  Revolution,  of 
which  but  (lilt;  aciiT  remained  lu  lower  llif  lurtain  ! 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

We  have  worn  out  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  the  Middle 
Ages  and  the  Renaissance,  the  English  and  the  German 
spirit :  the  eighteenth  century  has  been  unknown,  or  rather 
disavowed.  I  became  enamored  of  this  age  of  wit  and 
gold.  Poetry  was  there,  as  she  is  everywhere ;  but  liter- 
ary loves  pass  like  others  :  the  mind  goes  from  conquest  to 
conquest,  treasuring  as  a  nucleus  only  its  preferred  recol- 
lections. The  French  Revolution  has  opened  new  bounds 
to  thought;  and,  while  striving  to  be  a  faithful  painter,  I 
have  always  aimed  to  speak  of  the  men  of  the  eighteenth 
century  with  the  feeling  and  ideas  of  my  own  age. 


MEN  AND  WOMEN 


OF    THE 


EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 


dufees:n^t. 


DuFKESNY  introduces  us  gaylj  to  the  eighteenth 
century.  Let  us  pass  with  a  smile  into  this  gallery 
of  portraits,  by  turns  gay  and  sad,  representing,  in  aU 
their  shades  and  all  their  contrasts,  the  ideas,  i)assions, 
and  humors  of  the  age  of  Yoltaire  and  of  Madame  de 
Pompadour. 

Dufresny  is  a  poet  in  action,  such  as  I  love  and  you 
too  love  without  doubt — one  who  takes  a  straight 
coui-se  to  the  ideal  land  of  the  poet,  who  is  not  turned 
aside  by  the  deceitful  seductions  of  the  world,  but 
gathers  in  passing  throu'gh  life  all  that  the  sage  should 
gather — poetry  and  love  —  often  seated  beneath  the 
vine-trellis,  but  rather  to  dream  than  to  gather  the 
grape. 

^  This  poet — always  in  love,  notwithstanding  his 
two  wives  and  innumerable  mistresses;  always  ]ioor, 
in  spite  of  the  millions  given  liini  by  Louis  XIV.; 
always  singing,  even  when  in  ill  hick — was  descended, 
in  a  moi'e  f>r  less  direct  line,  from  a  ]>oor  devil  of  a 


1 2  DUFRESNY. 

riinc<v  of  Navaivc,;  offci|  in  love,  for  a  long  time 
poor,  always  siiit^iiig— ^iii*  a  word,  from  Henry  IV. — 
and-  tlijBi-e  'have' i|)een|  j^'oets'i.of  worse  descent.  He 
was  the  image  of  his  'great-gi'and father  and  also  of  his 
great-grand  mother,  the  pretty  flower-girl  of  Anet, 
"  the  fairest  rose  of  my  garden,"  as  Henry  IV.  called 
her. 

The  genius  of  Art  cradled  the  infancy  of  DutVcsny. 
He  came  into  the  Avorld  at  Paris  in  1648,  amidst  the 
barricades  of  Cardinal  de  Retz;  he  grew  np  during 
civil,  foreign,  and  religious  Avars,  but  dwelt  far  from 
their  noise  and  smoke,  passing  his  tender  youthful 
years  in  imprecations  on  books  and  schoolmasters,  and 
in  sunlight  as  well  as  starlight  dreams.  One  fine 
morniii";  wishino;  to  hear  nothino;  more  of  Greek  and 
Latin,  he  ran  away  from  school,  took  care  to  keep 
out  of  the  way  of  his  grand  mother''s  cottage,  and  threw 
himself  head  and  heels  upon  the  world.  He  was  then 
between  fifteen  and  sixteen.  At  that  deliglitful  age 
our  feet  are  as  those  of  the  gazelle,  our  spirits  as  the 
birds,  ever  in  search  of  spring.  Be  ofi\,  and  a  good 
journey  to  you !  May  God  protect  you,  my  child  !  Is 
n<.>t  the  road  you  travel  with  such  happy  thoughtless- 
ness a  o;ood  road  ?  All  roads  lead  to  Home,  savs  the 
proverb,  which  means  that  all  roads  lead  to  something. 

Toward  evening,  Dufresny  heing  very  hungry^  and 
not  the  less  thirsty^  saw  the  pointed  roofs  and  tur- 
rets of  a  chateau  rising  from  a  mass  of  foliage,  at  the 
termination  of  a  valley  which  he  had  entered.  "  That's 
my  sleeping-place,"  said  he,  with  a  humorous  devil- 
may-care'-air.  lie  pushed  on  at  a  quickened  pace, 
disregarding  the  attractions  of  the  flowers  and  berries 
along  his  jiath,  and  the  perfume  of  the  ripened  grapes. 


A    CHATEAU    OF   THE   XVIHTH    CENTUKY.  Ic 

the  pure  water  of  the  brooks,  and  all  ''^Vhotellerie 
chamjpHre^''  as  he  styled  it  at  a  later  period.  A  little 
before  sunset  he  reached  a  light  iron  fence,  thi-ough 
which  was  seen  a  small  park,  dotted  here  and  there 
with  elms  and  oaks.  A  gateway  half  covered  by  ivy, 
showing,  in  an  archway  surrounded  with  heavy  scroll- 
work, some  I'emains  of  Gothic  tracery,  rose  on  one 
side.  One  of  the  fronts  of  the  chateau  was  seen 
through  the  trees,  rising  from  the  grass,  already 
tinged  with  yellow.  Far  from  being  deserted,  the 
chateau  appeared  to  be  the  theatre  of  life  and  gayety. 
Fair  forms  were  seen  at  the  windows,  and  the  tones 
of  a  violin  melted  away  on  the  evening  breeze.  Our 
vagabond  poet  could  not  believe  his  eyes  nor  his  ears. 
It  was  profound  enchantment.  Tliere,  on  that  sculp- 
tured balcony,  a  smiling  woman;  here,  on  these 
trees,  a  ray  of  sunlight — the  smile  of  heaven,  and  the 
smile  of  earth;  there  gallant,  idling  gran-d  seigneurs, 
abandoning  the  chase  for  the  charms  of  love ;  here  a 
she])herd  liumming  the  chorus  of  a  peasant  song. 
"Wliat  a  concert,  what  a  picture,  a  school  in  the 
open  air!"  exclaimed  Dufre?ny;  "this  is  the  place 
for  my  studies;  but  meanwliile  I  am  hungry."  And 
he  began  to  think  sadly  that  lie  had  no  part  in  this 
festival  of  the  world  and  nature ;  that  a  poor  child 
like  himself  had  as  yet  no  position  in  the  world ;  and, 
to  sum  up,  that  he  must  go  to  bed  for  that  night  sup- 
perless.  And  where  was  he  to  sleep,  unless  under 
the  bri<rht  stars?  His  jjavetv  vanished  with  the  last 
ray  of  tiie  sun;  he  half  raised  his  eyes  to  a  fallen 
image  of  the  Virgin  in  the  niche  of  the  postern,  anc! 
connnenced  j»i  lying  with  devotion  to  the  holy  mother 
of  God . 

2 


14  DUFliKSNY. 

llo  was  interrupted  in  his  prayer  by  the  sound  o( 
the  voice  of  two  lovers,  who  were  lovingly  sauntering 
aloMjj;  a  retired  part  of  the  park,  partially  obscured 
by  the  <;atherino;  twili<j;ht.  lie  turned  his  head 
luechanically.  "AVhat  are  you  doing  there,  my 
child  r'  said  the  gentleman,  who  had  just  j^erceived 
him.  "  Faith,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  without  much  hesita- 
tion, "I  was  praying  for  a  supper;  now,  madame, 
has  not  my  prayer  been  lieard?" — "  lie  is  as  beautiful 
as  a  Cupid,  with  his  curling  locks,"  said  the  lady, 
"we  must  receive  him  in  the  chateau.  Come,  Mon- 
siem'  de  Nangis,  open  the  gate.     I  will  help  you." 

The  Marquis  de  Nangis  obeyed  with  a  smile. 
Scarcely  had  the  gate  moved,  when  Dufresny  slipped 
through,  like  a  bird,  and  threw  himself  at  the  lady's 
feet.  He  Was  taken  to  the  chateau,  and  straight  to 
the  saloon  Mhere  the  women  were  toying,  the  men 
playing  the  butterfly,  and  the  old  people  busy  at 
ombre.  "  I  have  brought  you  a  prodigal  son,  aunt," 
said  the  marcpiis,  "a  pretty  schoolboy,  who  wants  to 
go  on  his  travels  by  himself." — ^"And  in  the  mean- 
time," said  the  fair  protectress  of  Dufresny,  "  is  play- 
ing truant." — "Where  does  this  amiable  vagabond 
come  from?"  said  old  Madame  de  la  Roche  Aymon, 
the  mistress  of  the  chateau. — "  I  come  from  Paris," 
answered  Dufresny,  timidly  advancing. — •"  Where  are 
you  going?" — "I  don't  know." — "Your  family?" — ■ 
"  The  king  of  France  is  my  cousin." — "  Truly,"  said  the 
marquis,  with  a  burst  of  laughter. — "Yes,"  answered 
Dufresny,  "and  still  better,  we  are  said  to  resemble 
each  other.  One  may  resemble  a  more  distant  re- 
lation, for  I  am  rlescpnded  from  Henry  TV.  by  the 
^race  of  God,  and  the  pretty  tiower-girl  of  Ajiet." 


IN    GOOD   SOCIETY.  15 

"All,  lia!  the  yoniig  fool  is  joking.  lie  has  plenty 
of  wit;  he  is  a  good-looking  adventurer;  we  must 
make  his  fortune;  I  will  present  him  at  court;  the 
king  will  give  this  new  prince  of  the  blood  a  good 
reception." — "At  coui-t,"  exclaimed  Dufresny,  "I 
know  the  road  to  it  well,  but  it  is  not  a  very  amusing 
place;  my  grandfather  died  there  of  ennui.'' — "His 
grandfather  at  court!  what  the  devil  did  he  do 
there?" — "Nothing  much,  I  suppose,  lilve  a  good 
many  others.  By-the-by,  some  charitable  soul  was 
talldng  of  making  my  fortune,  which  is  very  luck}^, 
but  if  meanwhile  I  had  some  supper — " 

Everybody  was  charmed  with  Dufresny's  non- 
chalance. "Truly,"  said  one,  "he  has  the  maimers 
of  an  independent  gentleman,"  —  "Faith,"  said 
another,  "he  plays  the  grand  seigneur  marvellously." 
Supper  was  served,  Dufresny  admitted  to  the  foot  of 
the  table,  and  j^laced  between  a  provincial  pedant 
and  a  young  abbot  without  an  abbey.  Although  so 
indifferently  located,  he  made  innumerable  sallies 
and  was  the  true  king  of  the  table.  But  after  supper 
his  fortunes  suddenly  changed.  There  was  more 
company  at  the  chateau  than  usual,  and  not  even  a 
truckle-bed  left  for  his  royal  highness  Monseigneur 
Dufresny,  A  chambermaid,  who  interested  herself 
in  him,  conducted  him  to  a  hayloft,  regretting,  though 
in  a  very  low  tone,  that  she  could  do  no  better  for 
such  a  charming  student.  lie  forgot  his  titles  to  the 
crown  of  France  and  went  to  sleep  like  a  lucky  fellow. 

He  rose  with  the  sun  in  the  morning,  descended 
from  his  a]>artment,  and  promenaded  the  park  with 
great  nonchalance.  The  Marquis  de  Nangis,  in  setting 
out  for  the  chase,  passed  near  him.    "Monseigneur." 


10  DDFUKSNY. 

said  the  poet,  "there  is  no  common  sense  about  yowT 
jtark,  or  ratlier  there  is  too  much.  Xow  tlicse 
paths  hiid  out  by  rule  are  enough  to  kill  one  witli 
ennui;  tliese  trimmed  and  snipt  thickets  are  pitiable 
to  look  at;  it  is  all  pinned  up  like  a  country  prude.  I 
pity  your  taste.  Trust  me,  the  genius  of  a  gardener 
inspires  me.  Besides,  a  good  dog  hunts  according 
to  his  breed ;  my  ancestors  were  the  best  gardeners 
of  France  and  Navarre.  Now,  if  you  follow  my 
advice,  3'ou  M'ill  throw  your  terrace  and  park  into  a 
picturesque  confusion :  dig  a  fish-j^ond  here,  under 
your  feet;  pull  down  that  stiff  hedge  yonder.  lad- 
mire  those  rocks  which  you  have  taken  so  much  pains 
to  cover  with  earth,  and  that  bit  of  broken  wall,  which 
your  ninny  of  a  gardener  no  doubt  intends  to  rebuild 
and  plaster  over.  In  a  word,  monseigneur.  Nature 
knows  what  she  is  about;  she  has  her  channing 
caprices  and  her  fairy  fantasies ;  let  her  act  for  her- 
self a  little." 

Thus  we  see  Dufresny  received  at  the  chateau  like 
a  spoiled  child,  careless  of  the  future  as  of  the  past, 
abandoning  himself  to  the  luxuriant  freedom  of  youth, 
amusing  himself  with  the  hounds  as  well  as  the  hunts- 
men, with  the  scullions  as  well  as  the  fine  ladies, 
scarcely  ever  thinking  of  his  ]DOor  grandmother,  who 
was  praying  for  him.  But  the  fine  company,  which 
the  hunting-season  and  the  vintage  had  assembled  at 
the  chateau  were  about  dispersing  to  the  sumptuous 
hotels  of  Paris.  What  was  to  become  of  the  vacra- 
bond  poet,  who  had  no  hotel  to  go  to?  The  Marquis 
of  Nangis  took  pity  upon  him,  conducted  him  straight 
to  the  court,  and  requested  an  audience  of  the  young 
king.     "Sire,  you  behold  at  your  feet  an  illustrious 


LOUTS    QTATORZK.  17 

scion  of  iho, 2yreity jlotoer-yiH  of  Anet.^'' — "'I  under- 
stand," said  Louis  XIY.,  '■*  if  oiu- sacred  religion  has 
given  us  innumerable  brothers,  our  grandsire  Henry 
lY,  has  left  us  plenty  of  little  cousins.  This  one 
seems  to  me  to  have  a  genteel, lively  air,  he  is  wel- 
come: does  he  know  anything?" — "How,  sire!  he  is 
^  youth  of  genius,  sings  like  a  bird,  writes  like  a 
nutary,  has  the  best  of  ideas  about  gardens,  without 
saying  anything  about  Greek  and  Latin,  which  he 
has  fjone  at  tooth  and  nail.  But  these  ai"e  matters  I 
no  longer  care  for." — "If  he  sings  so  well,"  said  the 
king,  "I  will  make  him  one  of  the  valets  of  my 
wardrobe.  He  will  amuse  me  better  than  that  imbe- 
cile old  Desnoyers,  who  can  now  scarcely  tell  one  note 
from  another." — ^"And  have  all  the  gracefulness 
of  a  tiring-wonum,"  added  the  marquis. 

Till  now  Dufresny  had  kept  somewhat  in  the  back- 
ground, Louis  XIV.  beckoned  him  to  advance  in 
front  of  his  ann-chair,  "Your  name?"  demanded 
he. — "Some  say  Charles  Riviere,  others,  Charles 
Dufresny ;  for  my  part,  to  accommodate  both  parties, 
I  call  myself  Riviere  or  Dufresny,  if  it  please  your 
Majesty." — "  What  is  the  name  of  your  family  ?" 
— "  One  or  the  other,  sire,  but  what  difference 
does  it  make?  AVho  in  this  world  would  dare  to  say 
^vith  assurance,  I  know  whence  I  came,  I  know 
whitlier  I  am  going?  Human  vanity  has  worked 
away  for  a  long  time  at  genealogies ;  they  are  a  kind 
of  perspectives,  whose  beauty  consists  in  displaying  a 
long  gallery  of  portraits,  feebler  in  color,  and  more 
vague  in  design,  the  more  distant  they  are  placed. 
Besides,  tlie  ]>oint  of  observation,  being  almost  always 
vague  and  undetermined,  allows  us  to  imagine  tluit 

2* 


18  nUFRESNY. 

WO  see  faces  in  tlic  distance  which  not  even  the  eye 
of  a  lynx  could  discover.  Those  who  wish  to  stretch 
beyond  their  eyesight,  in  their  search  after  family, 
think  they  discover  in  the  fogs  of  antiquity  the  figures 
of  ancestors,  of  forms  as  synnnetrical  as  if  Michael 
Angelo  himself  had  moulded  them;  but  they  see 
them  only  as  the  forms  of  men,  horses,  or  spectres, 
are  sometimes  seen  in  the  clouds." — "Marvellous 
well !"  said  Louis  XIY.,  "  a  capital  lectm-e  on  bla- 
zonry, which  would  drive  to  despair  many  a  one 
who  pesters  me  with  his  vain  titles." — "  Thus,"  con- 
tinued Dufresuy,  "  it  only  depends  upon  myself  to 
discover  crowned  heads  in  the  distant  fogs,  but  there 
is  no  trouble  in  that.  AVhat  is  more  certain  is,  that 
I  come  in  a  straight  line  from  God.  I  have  that  in 
common  with  plenty  of  others,  who  may  seek  some- 
thing better  if  it  amuses  them."  Louis  XIV.  slightly 
bit  his  lip ;  he  had  really  laid  aside  his  majesty  and 
pride  for  an  instant,  but  these  two  pearls  of  the 
crown,  as  Benserade  called  them,  suddenly  re- 
appeared in  spite  of  himself.  How  could  he,  who 
called  himself  Louis  XIV.,  not  be  irritated  at  such 
audacious  words  from  a  beggarly  poet  of  some  sixteen 
years?  When  one  is  king  of  France  by  the  grace 
of  God,  how  could  the  utterance  of  this  bold  truth  be 
passed  over  without  anger.  Louis  XIV.  did  not 
explode ;  he  contented  himself  with  a  slight  remon- 
strance, and  installed  the  poet  in  his  palace.  "  I  'm 
a  made  man,"  said  Dufresny ;  "  here  is  plenty  of 
sunlight,  a  garden,  iine  clothes,  good  suppers,  and 
nothing  to  do — God  be  praised,  and  long  live  the 
king!" 

This  coui-se  of  life  lasted  for  three  years.     The 


SONG-WKITING.  10 

poet  expanded  like  a  rose  under  morning  breezes 
fragrant  dews,  and  warm  sun-beams.  Dnfresny,  not 
Louis  XIY.,  was  kins;.  But  tlie  war  burst  out,  and 
it  was  necessary  to  go  to  the  war.  Louis  XIY.  bad 
become  so  accustomed  to  see  Dufresny's  cheerful 
face  at  every  step  and  at  every  moment,  that  he 
commanded  him  to  depart  in  his  suite  for  Flanders. 
The  campaign  was  nothing  more  than  a  pleasm'e- 
tour.  For  the  first  time  a  king  of  France  had  carried 
with  him  all  the  pleasm-es  of  his  palace,  and  still 
more,  victory  made  one  of  the  party.  "This  affair  of 
the  king's  is  decidedly  not  bad,"  said  Dufresu}^,  after 
the  taking  of  Tournay.  The  courtiers  did  not  witness 
these  easy  manners  of  Dufresny  without  vexation, 
but  remembering  that  he  was  a  child  of  good  family^ 
they  did  not  dare  to  complain. 

Dufresny  followed  the  king  at  the  siege  of  Lille  to 
the  breach,  and  donned  helmet  and  cuirass  him- 
self. After  Lille  was  taken  there  was  a  splendid 
supper.  Dufresny  was  summoned  at  the  dessert,  and 
commanded  to  sing  a  hymn  of  victory.  Dufresny, 
like  a  spirited  fellow,  understood  song-writing  much 
better.  Much  they  thought,  too,  by  that  time,  of  the 
siege  of  Lille;  there  had  already  been,  since  the 
action,  too  many  bottles  emptied  and  heads  fuddled 
for  that!  Dufresny  bowed  gracefully  to  the  king, 
and  sang  his  pretty  harvest-song  to  an  air  composed 
by  himself.     Here  is  the  first  verse : — 


'To  the  vines  of  Claudine 

All  the  vintagers  go. 
You  can  tell  by  their  mien 
Who  will  gather  or  no. 


20  DUFRESNY. 

To  those  who  arc  best 

All  glnilly  {;ive  place ; 
Gleanings  full  to  the  rest 

Who  follow  their  trace." 

There  were  plaudits  fur  the  song;,  the  music,  and 
the  singer.  More  than  one  scignor,  more  than  one 
hero  of  the  previous  day,  envied  Dufresny's  gay 
triuinpli ;  for  at  the  trenches  there  was  only  the  king 
to  applaud  deeds  of  valor;  but  at  the  supper,  besides 
the  king,  there  were  fair  dames  who  bestowed  on  the 
poet  their  sweetest  glances.  "Who  is  this  pretty 
boy?"  said  one  of  these  ladies  to  Yauban.  "This 
pretty  boy,  madame,  is  the  king's  fool,"  the  grave 
soldier  answered.  Louis  XIV.  heard  him,  and 
condescended  to  turn  toward  Dufresny  and  say : 
"  Yauban  has  hit  it ;  always  remember,  Chariot,  you 
are  the  king's  fool.  One  fool  is  not  too  many  among 
60  many  sages."  Every  one  bowed  except  Turenne, 
who  was  already  conquering  Flanders  in  imagina- 
tion. 

The  king  returned  to  Paris,  where  fetes  and  bene- 
dictions awaited  him.  The  court  passed  the  winter 
at  St.  Germain,  in  ceaselessly  renewed  pleasures. 
One  evening,  at  the  time  of  opening  the  theatre,  the 
king,  somewhat  weary  of  music,  dance,  comedies, 
and  mistresses,  asked  for  Dufresny.  They  hunted  for 
him  everywhere;  at  last  the  king  himself  discovered 
him  on  the  stage,  playing  a  rascally  valet  in  one  of 
Moliere's  comedies,  in  capital  style. 

Dufresny  returned  to  the  seat  of  war  at  the  end  of 
March ;  he  was  present  at  the  conquest  of  Holland ; 
crossed  the  Rhine  in  the  king's  suite,  without  wetting 
his  feet;  and  led  the  errant  life  of  a  soldier,  without 


PASSAGE    OF   THE   RHINE.  21 

other  arms  than  his  a-^^vetv  and  wit.  Poet  as  he 
was,  he  faced  danger  welh  At  the  passage  of  the 
Ithine,  or  ratl^er  after  the  passage,  lie  received  a 
sabre-cnt  in  the  hand.  When  Boilean  presented  the 
Pa-s-mge  of  the  Rhine  to  tlie  king,  Dufresny  was 
present  in  tlie  hall  of  andience.  After  Boilean  left, 
lie  read  this  fine  poetical  fiction  himself.  "I  don't 
recollect  this,"  said  he,  interrnpting  himself  at  the 
end  of  every  verse.  "Does  M.  Despreaux  imagine 
that  we  passed  through  the  infernal  regions,  or  rather 
the  Styx?" — "Be  off,"  said  the  king,  with  some  pet- 
tishness ;  "  it  is  only  the  poets  who  imderstand  how 
to  write  the  history  of  kings." 

Bnt  Dnfresny  was  not  a  ]ioet  bom  for  a  court. 
"  Cultivating  roses,  marking  out  paths,  planting 
hedges,  is  the  same  as  writing  sonnets,  songs,  and 
poems,"  he  often  said ;  "  if  a  laborer  writes 
prose  in  the  book  of  Nature,  a  gardener  writes 
verse."  Om-  English  gardens  come  to  us,  not  from 
England  but  from  Dufresny.  In  architecture  and 
landscape-gardening  he  was  an  excellent  master. 
In  the  eighteenth  century  nothing  was  more  common 
than  to  hear  a  picturesque  garden  or  handsome 
country-seat  described  as  a  la  Dufresny.  The 
most  lovely  retreats  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris 
were  planned  or  embellished  after  his  recommenda- 
tions, lie  insisted  that  Versailles  should  be  made 
*•  a  aarden  of  caprices.''''  Louis  XIV,  ordered  designs 
from  Dufresny ;  the  poet  planned  magnificent  gardens, 
in  which  all  the  pronienadei-s  would  lose  themselves. 
The  Ciiinese  never  imagined  anything  so  grandiose 
and  poetically  wild.  The  king,  fearing  to  sink  too 
much   monc^y  l)y  Dnfrcsny's  operations,  shelved  the 


22  DUFRESNT. 

plims  but  not  tlioir  jiutlior,  who  was  appointed  in- 
si)octor  of  gardens. 

Dufresny  was  tliirty  years  old  when  he  married. 
Scarcely  anything  is  known  of  \u9.  first  wife,  who, 
according  to  Voisenon,  was  a  comfortahly-off  city 
dame,  who  captivated  the  poet  by  a  large  garden  in 
the  faiilx)urg  St.  Antoine.     Thanks  to  his  marriage, 
he  had  a  garden  to  cnltivate  to  his  liking.     "AYell, 
my  poor  Charh)t,"  the  king  said  to  him  a  month  after 
the  wedding,  "what  do  you  think  of  mamage?" — 
"Alas,   sire,   this   land    of  marriage   is   one  which 
foreigners  have  a  great  desire  to  inhabit,  while  the 
native  inhabitants  would  gladly  be  exiled  from  it;  or 
rather  it  is  a  community  of  goods  in  which  there  is 
nothing  good  in  common  at  the  end  of  eight  days." — 
"  One  thing  will  not  be  common  in  your  mansion, 
that  is,  money.      During   these   past  few  years   I 
liave   given   you   more   than   a   hundred   thousand 
crowns ;  you  really  throw  money  out  of  the  windows." 
— "  It  is  gone  before  I  have  time  to  open  the  windows. 
It  costs  money,  sire,  to  live  at  court." — "You  rascal, 
I  should  like  to  know  how  much  you  pay  for  bed 
and  board  here !" — "Alas,  sire,  I  dine  out  and  sleep 
out  so  often," — "Ah,  ha !   then  the  secret  is  out — so 
you  stay  at  the  palace  when  you  can  find  nothing 
more  amusing  in  Paris  —  you  are  an  ingrate  !" — "I 
am  well  aware  of  it,  sire,  so  I  entreat  your  majesty 
to  turn  me  out  of  doors.     A  poet  ought  to  put  some 
bounds  to  his  horizon;   and  besides,  thanks  to  my 
wife,  I  am  not  now  in  a  good  humor  every  day.'- 
— "  But  who  is  there  who  will  give  me  a  good  hearty 
laugh?"    the  king  pensively  interrupted.  —  "Your 
reflection,  sire,  reminds  me  of  a  pleasant  Arabian 


THE    OAI.IIMl     .\.\'.>    T!i:C     IMIYSICIA.N.  28 

l:vle,  wliieli  I  will  relate  with  your  permission." — "  Let 
me  hear  it,"  said  the  king;  "but  make  haste,  tbr 
they  are  waiting  for  me." 

THE    CKOWS. 

The  caliph  Ilaroun  had  two  physicians,  one  for 
his  body,  the  other  for  his  mind  ;  his  mind  was 
sick  with  sadness,  so  that  the  second  physician  was 
a  philosopher,  who  passed  all  his  time  in  endeavor- 
ing to  enliven  the  caliph.  One  day  while  they  w^ere 
walking  together  in  the  palace-gardens,  the  caliph 
exclaimed,  "  Oh  Ilaroun,  Haroun,  you  sadden  your 
friends  by  your  gloom,  as  yon  branching  tree  saddens 
the  neighlioring  trees  by  its  shade.  I  j>romise  you  a 
ring,"  tm-ning  to  the  philosopher,  "for  every  time  that 
you  make  me  laugh."  Tlie  philoso23her  forthwith 
began  to  narrate  comic  and  burlesque  stories  about 
widows,  but  he  narrated  in  vain.  lie  already  de- 
spaired of  himself  as  of  the  caliph,  when  a  flock  of 
crows  alii^hted  on  the  tree.  "  Yesterdav,"  continued 
the  philosopher,  "  these  crows  gave  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  to  a  dreamy  poet  who,  seeing  this  cloud  of 
ead-colored  birds  blackenino;  the  flowers  and  fruits 
of  such  a  beautiful  tree,  forgot  that  its  trunk  was  as 
thick  as  a  tower,  and  in  the  impulse  of  the  moment 
began  shaking  as  if  it  was  a  sapling.  The  account 
which  I  have  given  you  of  it  is  not  laughable,  but 
on  seeing  the  thing  myself  I  could  not  help  laugh- 
ing."— "  If  I  had  seen  it  I  think  that  I  should  have 
laughed  as  you  did,"  said  the  caliph.  —  ""Well,"  an- 
swered the  i)hilosopher,  with  a  triumj^hant  air,  "yuu 
ought  to  laugh  too,  in  seeing  me  all  in  a  passion  with 
trying  by  shakings  of  pleasantry  to  chase  away  tluiso 


DUl'KESNY. 


I)lav'k  crows,  tlitit  is  to  say,  these  cares  and  sorro-vvs 
Iroin  ycMir  l)rain.'"'  —  "You  have  won  the  riiig^  there 
it  is,"  cried  the  caliph. 

"  And  I,  sire,"  said  Dufresnv,  after  a  panse, 
"liave  I  won  leave  of  absence  ?"  —  "Yes,"  answered 
tlio  king,  sadly,  "be  olf ;  bnt  remember  me  when 
you  have  no  money  left.  I  hope  in  that  way  to 
see  you  often.  Adieu,  I  love  you  in  spite  of  your 
vices.  It  is  superfluous  to  say  that  you  are  a  charm- 
ing poet,  the  other  poets  are  mere  pedants,  except 
Moliere,  who  is  almost  as  good  as  you  are.  Adieu, 
my  brave  Chariot ;  I  am.  very  sorry  I  have  nothing 
to  give  you  to-day,  for  }  on  have  told  me  a  very  beauti- 
ful story  —  the  branching  tree  on  which  the  black 
crows  alighted,  alas!  is  the  king.  Let  us  see,  what 
can  I  give  you?"  —  "Ah,  sire,  is  it  not  enough  for 
to-day  to  have  given  me  the  key  of  the  fields  ?" 
Thereupon  Dufresny  bowed,  kissed  the  king's  hand, 
and  left  without  delay.  Did  this  jjhilosophic  dream- 
er— who  for  the  sake  of  liberty  turned  his  back  with 
such  good  will  on  the  silk  and  gold,  the  fetes  aiid 
])leasures  of  the  most  splendid  court  in  the  world  — 
iiKike  Louis  XIY.  think  ?  Did  he  not  envy  a  little 
that  humble  poet  who  had  not  a  crown  of  care  and 
iucpiietude  eternally  pressing  on  his  brow  ? 

Once  installed  in  his  w'ife's  house,  Dufresny  quickly 
commenced  ruining  himself  by  his  seignorial  prodi- 
galities. He  lost  no  time  in  the  work.  He  com- 
menced with  masons  and  gardeners ;  he  built  a 
matision,  or  rather  a  palace  ;  he  realized  the  en 
chanting  gardens  of  his  dreams,  after  which  he  gave 
BI)lendid  suppers  to  which  the  fashionable,  but  espe 


LOSES    HIS    WIFE.  25 

(uallj  the  theatrical  world,  was  invited.  Vise  re- 
ports that  he  met  one  evening  more  than  fifty  act- 
resses at  one  of  Duft-esny's  sn])pers.  His  wife,  who 
had  no  taste  for  these  prodigalities,  in  vain  endeavored 
to  hold  oil  to  her  monev  with  both  hands,  but  she  at 
last  revenged  herself  on  Dufresny's  follies  in  a  man- 
ner nsnal  with  dames  in  those  days.  She  was  not 
handsome,  according  to  Yoisenon,  her  gallant  was. 
It  is  to  Dufresny  that  we  owe  the  clever  saying,  "  The 
favor  vxis  all  on  your  side,  «//'." 

She  died,  it  is  not  known  how  or  why.  Her  bus. 
band's  sorrow  exhaled  in  a  bacchanalian  sono-,  A 
notary  came  to  make  an  inventory,  "  There  is  noth- 
ing for  you  to  do  here,"  said  Dufresny  to  him. 
"But,  monsieur,  at  the  dissolution  of  the  joint  pos- 
session of  the  fortune  which"  —  "Say  rather  of  the 
misfortune — that  affair  produced  nothing  good  un- 
less you  call  debts  good  —  is  it  worth  while  to  inven- 
tory my  debts?"  —  "But,  monsieur,  your  two  chil- 
dren?"—  "That  concerns  Heaven  —  their  erand- 
mother,  who  has  got  nothing  to  do,  has  promised  me 
to  educ-ite  them."  —  "But,  after  all,  monsieur,  the 
law  has  its  claims  —  a  small  inventory."  Dufresny 
seized  his  hat,  took  to  his  heels,  and  never  reappeared 
in  tlie  house. 

He  went  the  same  day  to  St.  GeiTnain,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  seeing  the  king.  "Well,  Dufresny,  how 
do  your  gardens  flourish?"  —  "Ah,  sire,  their  paths 
are  not  always  strewed  with  roses  —  I  ha\e  counted 
my  chickens  before  they  were  hatched.  My  wife  is 
dead;  I  have  abandoned  my  house  to  tlie  notary ;  I 
have  nothing  left,  not  even  my  gayety.  But  the 
thing  wliicli  iiuikes  nie  saddest  is  that  I  just  now  spoko 

3 


2<>  i)rKui:sNV, 

liai-slilv  to  a  l)02:2:ar,  avIio  asked  alms  at  tlie  entrance 
to  tlio  })alace."  — '' Come," said  Louis  XIV.,  "let  us 
hear;  yon  must  hit  on  some  drollery."  Dutresny  i)ut 
his  hand  tt*  his  forehead  like  a  man  trying-  to  recol- 
lect himself.  "  The  poor  devil,"  he  continued,  "  fol- 
lowed me  and  said,  ''Poverty  is  not  a  crime?  It  is 
much  worse,  I  answered  him."  —  "  I  am  always  sorry 
for  your  misfortunes,  you  prodigal  fellow,"  said  the 
king.  "  Come,  speak." — ■"  I  only  ask  your  majesty 
a  small  corner  of  ground  at  the  end  of  the  lawn  at 
Vincennes ;  it  has  capabilities  for  a  magnificent  gar- 
den, in  mv  stvle."  —  "  A  garden  ?  you  are  a  fool.  Do 
you  want  it  to  display  your  poverty  ?"  —  "  1  shall  never 
be  poor  while  I  have  a  garden  ;  it  is  my  throne,  sire. 
I  find  there  the  green  vine-tendrils  or  the  roses  for 
my  crown."  —  "Be  it  as  you  will,"  said  the  king; 
"  come  back  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  we  shall 
have  the  papers  signed." 

Dufresny  went,  to  sleep  where  he  could.  The  next 
day  he  presented  himself  to  Kegnard,  who  had  made 
one  at  his  suppers.  Regnard  wishing  to  repair  the 
breaches  in  his  fortune  by  means  of  the  stage ; 
confided  his  plan  to  Dufresny,  W'ho  wished  to  take 
an  even  share  in  the  venture.  But  the  day  after, 
our  poet  having  received  from  Louis  XIV.  a  pm-se 
containing  a  hundred  louis,  the  grant  of  half  an  acre 
of  the  lawn  at  Vincennes,  and  the  monopoly  of  the 
mamifactory  of  looking-glass,  he  abandoned  the 
theatre  till  fuiiher  ordei-s  from  his  evil  fortunes.  As 
it  was  in  spring,  he  hastened  to  sow  his  hundred 
louis  in  his  garden.  From  such  good  seeds  he  har- 
vested a  few  puffs  of  perfumed  air. 

Winter  liaving  ari-ivt'd.  it  was  time  to  call  on  his 


WRITES    COMEDY    AVITU    KKGNARD.  27 

fi-ieiid  TIegnard.  Tiic  monopolv  of  the  new  iiiami- 
factnre  of  niivrors  was  nothing  less  than  a  fortune  f  »r 
lite,  Init  it  was  slow  in  coming,  as  the  early  disbdrse- 
ments  exceeded  the  receipts.  Dnfresny  went  to  the 
contractors,  spoke  to  them  about  his  disgust  for 
business  affairs,  and  offered  them  his  privilege  for 
twelve  thousand  livres,  that  is  to  say,  about  enough 
to  support  him  during  the  winter  according  to  his 
mode  of  life.  The  monopoly  was  worth  a  hundred 
thousand  livres,  so  the  contractors  quickly  offered 
him  six  tliousand.  To  a  poet  who  lives  from  day  to 
day,  like  a  careless  grasshopper,  a  little  ready  money 
is  a  fortune.  Dufresnv  sio;ned  a  transfer.  The  same 
day  he  met  Regnard.  "  Well,"  said  the  traveller  to 
liim,  "I  have  not  seen  yon  for  a  long  time,  where 
liave  von  been  ?■  All  Paris  has  been  calling  for  you." 
"  I  have  been  livino;  at  mv  ijarden  all  smumer,  with 
my  roses  and  maijoram,  my  grajjes  and  gooseber- 
ries." —  "  And  our  comedies  V  —  "I  have  not  thought 
about  them  ;  but  I  have  imagined  verdant  ])rospects 
which  are  real  teiTestrial  paradises."  —  "  AVell,  thank 
heaven,  winter  has  come,  with  his  powdered  wig; 
gardens  are  no  longer  in  season,  and  willing  or  not, 
you  must  compose  some  comedies  with  me  for  the 
llieutre-Italien."  —  "As  yon  please;  I  am  on  luy 
way  to  pay  a  rogue  at  A'^incennes,  who  lodged  mo 
tolei'ably  during  the  summer,  Af\er  my  return,  I  will 
jiut  my  wits  at  your  disposal."  —  "So  you  pay  your 
debts?"  —  "The  small  ones  only;  as  for  the  great 
ones  I  content  myself  with  paying  the  interest  to  the 
jxjor." 

The  same  evening  Dnfresny  took  a]>artmeuts  near 
Kegnard's.  They  were  two  gay  philosophers,  loving- 


28  DUFRESNT. 

]_v  rc'C'oi\iiiii"  the  liai)ii_v  lioiirs  as  they  caiiie  from  tlie 
liand  i>t"  lli'avon,  careless  of  tlie  fiiture  as  of  the 
past,  S(jueeziii,u'  the  ]>resent  with  all  their  Btrei!<:;tli, 
seizing-  Avitli  ardor  all  the  pleasures  of  the  ])assiiii:; 
(lay  ;  the  i-ays  of  simlij^-ht,  the  mistress  wlio  comes 
■without  ceremoiiv,  the  iiiouldv  flask,  the  ii^ayetv  of 
friends,  the  sonii;  at  sn])])er ;  those  wlio  choose  like 
itegiiai'd  and  ])ufresny  may  find  a  thousand  pleas- 
ures in  the  compass  of  a  day.  Our  two  ])hilosophei's 
had  studied  the  world  well ;  one  in  adventurous 
travel,  the  other  at  the  court;  they  ha<l  sounded  all 
the  weaknesses  of  the  lieart,  all  the  al)surdities  of  in- 
tellect to  their  very  de])ths.  Eeoiiard,  who  had  stood 
the  bnmt  of  adversity,  had  the  liardiest  mind.  Du- 
fresny,  more  dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  the  world, 
had  more  fire  of  intellect;  the  first  desiijned  noble 
outlines  like  a  pupil  of  Moliere,  the  second  added  a 
thousand  brilliant  ornaments  to  the  sketch.  "  IJeg- 
nard  is  a  laboi-er,  I  am  oidy  a  gardener,"  said  Du- 
fresuv.  Jt  was  a  simile  as  true  as  it  was  ingenious. 
Tie  made  his  drInU  with  Reo-nard  in  '■'•Zes  Chmois''' 
After  breakfast  ItCirnard  took  liis  i)en  and  traced  the 
fdili ;  Dufresny  was  good  only  for  Iiis  sallies  of 
broad  humor.  Each  one  broujrht  him  but  one  pis- 
tole. Louis  XIV.  paid  better,  but  then  Louis  XIV. 
did  not  always  take  the  joke.  These  joint  comedies 
were  socni  produced  by  the  Italian  buffoons  with 
side-splittini;  success.  The  two  poets  afterward 
composed,  always  workinp;  after  l)reakfast  and  in  tlie 
same  style.  La  Foire  de  St.  Gerwain.,  and  Les 
^fomies  d^Egypte.  Kegnard  finished  by  paying 
Dufresny  in  cash  (ready  money  for  ready  jttkei^). 
Til  is  mode  of  payment  sharpened  Dufresny's  intel- 


niS    GARDEN    AT    VmCENNES.  29 

Icct ;  ill  oxu-  day  we  have  Dufresuys  by  the  dozen, 
in  inns  the  wit. 

The  poet,  at  hist  finding  that  Eegnard  was  enrich- 
ing himself  while  he  was  exhanstiiig  his  resources, 
rutnmed  to  his  gardens.  The  swallows  had  returned, 
and  lie  again  cultivated  his  well-beloved  rose-s  with- 
out troul)ling  himself  about  harvest-time.  This  sea- 
sou  liis  irarden  at  Yincennes  was  a  miniature  master- 
l)iece  of  art  and  nature ;  but  one  evening  while  he 
was  revelling  in  the  intoxicating  perfume  of  his 
flowers,  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  the  where- 
withal to  pay  for  his  supper.  At  that  moment  a  large 
stone  uf  the  great  wall  of  the  park,  which  was  partly  in 
ruins,  fell  at  his  feet.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  if  that  stone 
had  fallen  on  the  other  side,  it  would  have  crushed 
Some  passer-by ;"  and  in  his  zeal  for  humanity  he  sum- 
moned a  lal)orer  and  ordered  him  to  tear  down  the 
broken  wall  fortliwith.  In  a  few  days  he  sold  twenty 
cart-loads  of  handsome  stone  to  his  neighbors.  If 
lie  had  l)cen  left  alone  he  would  have  torn  down  all 
the  M-alls  of  the  park ;  but  the  governor,  being  at 
last  advised  of  the  proceeding,  begged  him  to  set 
some  limits  to  his  zeal  for  humanity. 

I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  Dufresny  had 
among  his  bad  habits,  a  2)assion  for  gandjling.  lie 
found  in  liis  bead  one  morning,  "when  he  least  expected 
it,  a  veritable  comedy,  almost  self-made,  thanks  to 
liis  recollectinii  of  some  scenes  in  which  he  had  been 
an  actor.  AUliough  he  o\ved  llegnard  a  grudge,  he 
Went  ill  liis  first  glow  of  enthusiasm  and  recited  his 
(•omc(ly  to  liim,  scene  by  scene,  and  word  for  word. 
Ill-guard  ]>reteiide<I  that  he  did  not  understand  it, 
a:id  l)cgged  his  old  friend  to  write  out  the  piece,  and 

3* 


30  DlIFliKSNY. 

intrust  liim  with  the  nuuniscript.  Dufresiij  did  so. 
l^egiiiird  promised  to  point  out  its  faults,  tliougli  lie 
hnd  a  i^reat  many  other  tliiniys  to  attend  to,  he  said. 
Y<.  T  six  niontlis  lie  kept  Dufresny  dancin<»;  atteiulanee, 
answering  the  poor  poet's  complaint  now  and  tluMi 
by  a  <2;ood  sujiper.  At  last  Eegnard  returned  tlie 
MS.,  decoi-ated  with  a  great  luimljer  of  ci'osses. 
'•  So  you  take  my  comedy  for  a  cemetery,"  said  Du- 
fresny. lie  set  to  work  a2;ain  :  this  time  he  was  en- 
thusiastic  about  his  work ;  but  alas!  the  fotal  liuur 
had  struck — his  good  star  had  faded  !  It  was  <»f  no 
use.  Fortune  is  fickle,  he  had  wearied  her  too  long, 
she  had  fled  for  eyer,  leaving  but  a  cloud  of  golden 
dust  in  her  course.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  ])ursued 
her  with  his  cries  and  tears,  misfortune  alone  re- 
sponded to  them  ;  it  was  in  vain  that  he  stretched  out 
his  failing  hand  toward  her  Avith  repentance ;  a  dry 
and  icy  hand,  the  hand  of  misery,  came  to  lean 
upon  his.  He  offered  "Z^  Chevalier  joueur'^''  to  the 
Comedie  Frangaise,  it  was  put  in  rehearsal  the  same 
day.  That  lught  the  poet  could  not  sleep  ;  ha])piest 
hopes  fluttered  over  his  humble  lodging-hon^se  bed; 
he  saw  not,  like  many  others,  castles  in  the  air,  but 
his  gardens,  the  oases  of  his  life,  again  in  bloum. 
Ihit  a  few  days  after  the  leaves  droi)i)ed  from  all  his 
roses.  Passing  by  the  Comedie  Fran^aise,  about 
eight  o'clock  one  evening,  he  met  Gacon,  who  asked 
him  if  he  had  come  to  see  Le  Joueur  <»f  llcgnard. 
"  Le  Joxieur  of  lieii-nard  !"  exclaimed  Dufresny. 
"  Yes,"  returned  Gacon,  "  they  are  just  commencing 
it."  A  flash  of  light  passed  through  Dufresny's 
mind  ;  he  entered  the  theatre  w'ith  indignation, 'he 
looked  on  at  the  most  lamentable  of  spectacles,  he 


WHO    IS    THE    PLAGIARIST  ?  31 

saw  Lc  Joiunir  wliicli  he  Lad  created  represented, 
everyl)ody  applauded,  the  name  of  the  autliur  %vas 
saluted  M'itli  enthusiasm,  hut  the  name  was  that  of 
Itegnard.  "After  all,"  said  poor  Dufresny,  when 
Ids  choler  was  a  little  appeased,  '"ideas  are  the 
l>r(.>pertj  of  the  whole  world  ;  Eegnard  has  followed 
Moliere,  who  took  as  lie  could  find.  I  wrote  uiy 
piece  as  fast  as  the  pen  could  move,  he  has  turned 
mj  prose  into  verse.  Thus  is  a  masterpiece  fabri- 
cated." 

This  adventure  caused  scandal.  Dufresny  opeidy 
accused  Ilegnard.  The  comedians,  in  order  to  keep 
Parisian  curiosity  in  suspense,  announced  that  they 
would  shortly  produce  Le  Joueur  of  Dufresny.  At 
the  end  of  two  months  it  was  produced.  Eegnard  is 
accused  of  theft  in  the  prologue,  in  which  he  figured 
as  an  unbounded  plagiarist  from  his  old  friend. 
Among  the  thousand  epigrams  launched  against  tlie 
two  poets,  that  of  Gacon's  was  especially  commended, 
"i'liis  sliarpener  of  epigrams  said  that  Dufresny  and 
Ilegnard  in\ented  Le  Joueur  between  them,  so  that 

Kach  boldly  pilfered  from  his  friend, 
But  Rcpiiard   liad  the  greatest  skill, 
And  proved  the  hest  thief  in  the  end. 

At  first  Dufresny  Avas  the  most  l)lamed,  but  l)y 
degrees  the  truth  Avas  acknowledged  by  all  fair- 
minded  men.  It  lias  been  said  by  a  critic:  "Du- 
fresny must  be  believed  :  if  he  had  been  a  pla- 
giarist, he  would  not  liave  dared  to  produce,  in  a 
tlieutre  still  resounding  with  the  ])laudits  bestowed 
on  that  of  Jlegnard,  a  comedy  hei-alded  by  a 
tlioiLsaud   unlUvorable   [ireixissessions.  and   depi-istd 


32  DUFRESNT. 

of  tlie  brilliaiit  pro?tii!;e  of  versification,  Avitli  wliic-h 
his  rival's  was  cmbcllislied  ;  but  Diifresny,  the  true 
father  of  'Z«  Joueur^^  eiuimored  M-ith  the  form 
wliic-h  his  piece  had  received  from  his  liaiids  at  its 
creation,  exasperated  a<2;ainst  his  faitliless  friend, 
trnsting  more  to  liis  just  rights  tliau  was  proper 
ill  a  cause  wliere  entertaiumeut  was  tlie  judge, 
acted  witli  all  the  im[)rudence  and  ill-fortune  of 
sincerity."  The  best  argument  in  favor  of  Du- 
fresnv  is,  that  Resrnard  had  bought  from  him  for 
a  hundred  crowns  that  pleasant  comedy,  '"'' Attendez- 
moi  sous  V  orme?''  But  in  this  case  it  was  a  reo:ular 
bargain;  Dufresny  had  no  more  idea  of  reclaiming 
it  than  if  lie  had  sold  an  old  coat. 

He  hobbled  back  again  toward  the  Comedie 
Italienne,  and  associated  himself  with  Biancoletti, 
son  of  the  famous  Dominique.  They  wrote  togetlier 
the  "  Contes  de  ma  mere  VOleP  (Mother  Go(.>se'8 
Tales),  a  piece  of  buflPoonery  which  sui)]>lied  our  poor 
poet  with  bread,  nothing  more.  Louis  XIV.  had  at 
last  lost  patience  with  Dufresny's  mode  of  life  ;  he 
gave  less  and  less  frequent  answers  to  his  petitions, 
saying  to  those  who  wished  to  plead  for  him,  "I  am 
not  potent  enough  to  enrich  Dufresny."  Thus  aban- 
doned by  the  king,  without  family,  without  a  home, 
it  was  a  sad  sight  to  see  the  miserable  plight  to 
which  he  was  reduced.  Where  were  the  fine  laces 
of  his  linen,  his  sparkling  jewels,  his  gold  shoe- 
buckles,  the  plumes  of  his  beaver — what  had  l)e- 
coine  of  the  magnificent  attire  suitable  to  a  man 
who  had  squandered  over  half  a  million  ?  He  was 
not  yet  old,  but  in  spite  of  his  natural  coquettishness 
he  had   iieiforce  to  submit  to  sorrv  accoutrements. 


ABANDONED    BY    THE    KING.  33 

He  was  soon  so  sUaLLv  and  tlireadLare,  that  one  day 
on  presenting  liiniself  at  the  Louvre  to  see  the  king, 
he  was  repulsed  in  broad  davliglit  hy  the  guard. 

It  was  doubtless  about  this  time,  that  seeing  Louis 
XIV.  passing  in  his  carriage  and  saluting  the  crowd, 
lie  threw  his  hat  under  the  horses'  feet,  and  stretched 
out  his  hands  in  desperation.  The  horses  stopped, 
but  what  a  stroke  of  ill-fortune  I — The  king  saw  in 
Dufresnv  only  a  beggar,  and  threw  a  crown  of  six 
livres  to  him  from  the  window.  The  poor  poet  took 
to  his  heels  with  his  utmost  speed,  as  if  to  es- 
cape from  his  shame,  and  ran  no  one  knew  whither, 
to  weep  with  shame  and  anger.  Certes,  had  sui- 
cide then  been  in  voo-ue,  Dufresnv  would  have  hung 
himself,  for  how  coidd  he  continue  his  iournev  on 
so  bad  a  road,  when  life  had  naught  but  flints  to 
scatter  beneath  his  feet,  and  the  portal  of  the  other 
world  can  be  opened  so  easily.  But  in  those  days 
men  lived  as  long  as  it  pleased  Heaven ;  they  tnidged 
])atiently  through  all  the  merry  ways  of  life,  calling 
into  requisition,  in  default  of  lieroism  in  bearing  ca- 
lamity, a  little  of  that  good  old  philosophy  which  then 
formed  the  life  of  the  nation.  So  do  not  pity  Du- 
fresny  too  much.  He  only  is  to  be  pitied  Avho, 
having  exhausted  all  the  favors  of  fortune,  has  no 
other  resource  left  but  to  don  the  livery  of  wretched- 
ness on  the  decline  of  youth,  when  the  imagination 
is  naught  but  a  devastated  plain,  scarcely  animated 
here  anil  there  by  the  fall  of  a  leaf  or  the  cry  of  a 
bird  taking  wing.  Donot  pity  Dufi'esny.  T  tell  you, 
lie  will  take  refuge  in  the  past,  or  still  better,  mIII 
amnse  himself  witli  the  present,  as  with  a  comedy  of 
a  tln.ii.-and    \aried  scenes.     Besides,  let  fortune  <lo 


34r  DUFEESNY. 

\wv  worsf,  sue  can  not  cle})rive  liiiu  oC  his  little  n-ainU'ii- 
])lot  at  A'inceniies,  wlieii  the  pleasant  season  retnvns, 
and  the  roses  bloom  airain.  Perhaps  you  think 
that  Dufresnv  went  and  bemoaned  himself  in  a 
loni'  eleii-iac  ?  Do  not  be  deceived.  He  cried  liearti- 
ly,  but  could  not  restrain  a  smile  amidst  his  tears. 
''  My  poor  hat  lost !  that  is  all  I  have  gained  by  that 
silly  business.  longhtto  liave  picked  u]>  the  money, 
and  makinc:  mvself  known  to  Lonis  XIY.,  said  to 
him,  'What  would  you  have  Dufresny  do  with  this':!' 
The  king  would  liave  taken  back  his  alms,  and  I 
should  luive  liad  no  weight  upon  my  heart." 

Dufresny  returned  to  his  lodging,  thinking  that  a 
wife,  the  first  he  could  get,  would  be  a  treasure  to 
liim  in  his  misery.  With  a  wife  lie  would  be  sure 
of  a  home  and  of  l)read  without  anxiety;  he  had  his 
days  of  ennui,  a  wife  would  make  them  pass  ])leas- 
antly.  A  letter  from  Biancoletti  came  to  dissipate 
this  odd  revery.  Biancoletti  invoked  a  little  of  his 
hnniur  for  the  finishing  touch  to  a  piece  he  had  in 
hand.  Dufresny  mended  his  pen,  and  sat  down  to 
answer  the  letter.  He  had  not  written  three  lines, 
when  a  woman,  without  any  previous  notice,  walked 
into  his  room.  "  Alas  !"  said  he,  "  people  formerly 
took  the  troid)le  to  wait  in  the  antechamber;  here  is 
the  inconvenience  of  being  no  longer  a  fine  gentle- 
num,  and  particularly  of  not  having  an  antecham- 
ber." Tlie  woman,  who  had  heard  Dufresny's  re- 
mark, veiy  coolly  said  to  him, "  I  went  through  all  your 
other  rooms  without  meeting  a  single  valet,  otherwise 
I  should  have  had  myself  announced."  Dufresny 
recognising  the  voice,  turned  with  a  merry  smile, 


ANGELIQUE.  6t 

'*  Ah,  is  it  YOU,  Angelique  ?  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  was 
waiting  with  impatience  for  my  rivfiies."  —  "That  is 
all  very  well,  Monsieur  Dufresny ;  but  you  have  had 
no  ruffles  in  the  wash  this  long  time." 

This  woman  was  Dufresny's  washerwoman,  a 
large  girl,  pleasant  and  i'air-complcxioned,  and 
dressed  eu(]ucttishly.  '*  Do  you  know,  Angelique," 
continued  the  poet,  in  resuming  his  letter,  "  that 
you  are  a  very  pretty  girl?"  —  "That  is  pos- 
sible, ]\[()nsieur  Dufresny;  but  I  am  not  to  be  paid 
with  that  kind  of  money  to-day.  You  have  owed 
me  eighty  li\Tes  this  long  time.  I  beg  3'^ou  to  re- 
member me,  for  I  am  going  to  be  married."  —  "  How 
is  that !  you  are  going  to  be  married !"  cried  Du- 
fresny, suddenly  starting  from  his  chair.  —  "And 
why  not,  if  you  please  ?     Am  I  not  old  enough  ?" 

Dufresny  had  become  thoughtful. — "With  M'honi 
and  Avith  what  ?" — "  With  a  valet-de-chambre  of  the 
Due  d'llarcourt,  and  with  twelve  Imiidred  livres 
which  come  to  me  from  my  family." — "  The  deuce ! 
the  misci'al)le  fellow  is  not  to  be  pitied ;    a  good 

match  in  faith !     Has  anything  yet "  —"What 

do  you  take  me  for.  Monsieur  Dufresny?" — "For  a 
fine  irirl  who  desires  onlv  to  l>ecome  a  fine  wife." — 
"  That  is  all  very  well.  Monsieur  Dufresny,  but  you 
are  making  me  lose  my  time  with  all  your  fine  talk. 
Come,  be  kind  enough  to  settle  our  little  bill." — "I 
have  a  horror  of  figures.  See  here:  to  finish  tliis 
matter,  I  will  marry  you  and  we  shall  be  quits." 
— "You  are  joking!     A  gentleman — If  I  take  you 

at  your  word "  — "Tliat  is  what  I  wish.     I'.iit 

what  will  your  other  friend  say?" — "Say  no  more 
about  liim" — "Are  you  sure  he  has  had   nolliiiig  ov 


3()  DUFRT':SNY. 

account  from  your  twelve  Imndrcd  livres  or  from 
Yourself r' — "I  should  iiavc  liked  to  have  seen  hiui 
try  it !  It  is  only  to  yon  that  people  give  {inytliing  or. 
account." — "AVell,  embrace  me,  and  let  ns  lie  oH'  to 
ihc  next  tavern.  "What  a  pretty  wife  I  am  going  to 
have!  l>y-the-l»y,  have  you  a  little  money  about 
Yt)u  ?" — "  Do  vou  know  that  you  do  me  a  o;reat  deal 
t)f  honor?  A  man  of  your  rank  and  of  your  talents 
to  marry  a  poor  girl  incapable  C)f  playing  the  part  of 
a  duchess." — "It  is  you  who  will  be  the  dupe;  look 
at  the  matter  twice ;  see  to  what  a  state  I  have 
arrived  with  all  my  talent  and  my  forty-five  years." 
—  Angclique  weeping  embraced  him.  "  To-morrow," 
said  she,  with  charming  naivete,  "•  I  will  make  you 
look  as  well  as  I  have  seen  you  formerly.  But,  jfirst 
and  foremost,  you  must  ask  me  in  marriage  of  my 
aunt  Durand,  for  form's  sake :  it  is  not  far — quai  des 
Tournelles.  She  is  a  good  woman,  and  besides  she 
keeps  my  money  for  me." — "  Let  us  go  instanter ; 
we  should  never  put  off  anything  to  the  morrow\  If 
YOU  will  take  my  advice,  "sve  will  afterward  snv  a 
sh(»rt  prayer  together  at  Notre-Dame,  and  it  will  be 
all  over." — "  So  this  is  the  style  in  which  you  wish  to 
marry  me !  Thank  heaven,  I  do  not  agree  with  you !" 
— "  Oh,  I  am  willing  to  marry  you  in  any  style  you 
wish.  I  "will  not  even  object  to  the  marriage  con- 
tract, though  all  these  things  are  superfluous." 

Three  weeks  afterward  the  marriage  took  place 
rather  privately.  Such  was  the  inanner  in  which 
Dufresny  married  his  washerwoman.  Nothing  was 
ever  more  reasonable  or  more  natural  than  this 
marriage,  which  caused  so  much  scandal.  But  what 
mattered  the  vain  satires  of  the  world  to  Dnfresny  ? 


MARRIES    niS    WASlfERV'OMAN.  37 

He  luid  a  young  and  liandsome  wife  wlio  loved  liim, 
BO  lie  said  those  wlio  pitied  liim  were  jealous. 

Le  Sage  tlnis  relates  this  singular  adveuture  in  the 
tenth  ehai)ter  of  his  "Devil  upon  Two  Sticks."  The 
devil  is  showing  Cleophas  the  people  who  should  be 
])iit  in  the  madhouse.  "I  also  wish  to  send  there," 
says  he,  ''an  old  fellow  of  good  famihj^  who  no 
s»n.>ner  gets  a  ducat  than  he  spends  it ;  and  who,  not 
being  able  to  exist  M'ithout  money,  is  capable  of  doing 
anything  to  obtain  it.  Fifteen  days  ago,  his  washer- 
woman, to  whom  he  owed  thirty  pistoles,  came  to  ask 
him  for  them,  savinc;  that  she  needed  them,  as  she 
was  iroino-  to  marrv  a  valet-de-chambre  who  had 
])rop..>c'd  to  her. — 'Ton  have  other  money,  then,' 
said  he  to  her,  '  for  M'here  the  plague  can  you  find  a 
valet-de-chambre  willing  to  become  your  husband  for 
thirty  pistoles  ?' — 'Eh?  but,'  answered  she,  'I  have 
two  liuii(bv(l  ducats  besides  that.' — 'Two  hundred 
ducats,'  replied  he  with  emotion;  'the  devil!  you 
have  only  to  give  them  to  me ;  I  will  marry  you,  and 
we  will  be  quits.'  He  was  tahen  at  his  wuid,  and  his 
wasliei-wonian  has  become  his  wife." 

The  news  of  this  marriage  was  soon  extended  far 
and  wide,  thanks  to  a  bon-mot  of  the  al)be  Pellcgrin, 
M-ho  had  been  present  at  the  celebration.  Dufresny, 
some  (lavs  after,  rallied  him  at  Anise's  for  always 
wearing  dirty  linen;  the  abbe,  pi(pied  at  this,  re- 
torted that  everybody  was  not  fortunate  enough  to 
mai'ry  a  washerwonum. 

(Jut  of  love  to  liis  wife,  Dufresny  set  to  work  again 
with  ardor.  He  wrote  a  dozcTi  butfooneries,  one  after 
the  other,  for  the  Italieiis,  and  three  or  four  come- 
dies f"i-  Ihf  Th(':iliv  Franciiis.    Thr  luwvi'sl  was  good 

4 


3S  dVtrks.ny. 

duriii::;  tlie  early  yours,  but  uul'ntiiuatcly  as  soon  as, 
lie  tbiiiul  he  liad  eiioni!;li  to  sai)[)oi-t  liimself  for  a 
season,  lie  (lr«»p[)e(l  the  pen  and  took  up  the  watei'iiiiji;- 
]t<>t,  returned  to  Ins  fatal  iiui'tleu  at  \'inconncs,  and 
did  not  leave  it  until  all  his  resources  were  exhausted. 
He  had  no  lon<i;er  mueh  enthusiasm  for  the  sta^'e, 
Avhieh  had  retui-ned  him  but  small  <^aiiis,  and 
began  to  despair,  wiieii  Louis  XIY.  again  thought  of 
Inni.  The  patent  for  the  looking-glass  manufactory 
had  expired;  in  signing  a  renewal  of  it,  the  king  had 
sti})ulated  that  the  contractors  should  pay  ])ufresny 
an  annual  pension  of  three  thousand  livres.  The 
poet,  therefore,  ]-eceived  one  morning  the  title  to  this 
pension:  but  how  could  he  wait  six  months  before 
receiving:  the  iirst  instalment?  Six  months  to  Du- 
fresnv !  It  seemed  like  the  end  of  the  world,  "^riie 
contractors  were  accommodating  peojDle ;  he  ]>aid 
them  a  second  visit.  "  I  shall  live  fifty  years,''  he 
told  them;  "but  if  you  will  pay  me  for  five  years  in 
advance,  I  will  give  you  a  full  acquittance."  They 
debated  a  long  time  ;  the  C(jntractors  talked  a  great 
deal  about  the  chances  of  death;  but  after  two  con- 
tracts giuirantying  them,  Dufresny  returned,  all  in  a 
jjerspiration,  "svith  ten  thousand  livres  in  gold.  Jle 
sj^read  them  out  on  the  table  with  the  jov  of  an  iidant, 
and  embraced  his  wife,  who  from  weeping  from 
misery  wept  for  jov. 

The  next  day  he  reattired  his  wdfe  from  head 
to  foot,  bought  himself  fifty  pairs  of  mfiles,  hired 
three  sets  of  apartments  at  the  same  time,  to  dis- 
sipate the  blue  devils  which  tormented  him ;  in 
Hue,  took  rapid  strides  again  down  the  road  of 
ruin,    in    spite    of   his    wile,    who    restraine<l     liim 


THE   MEKCURr.  39 

witli  Ijotli  1  lands.  In  less  tlian  a  vcav  he  tell  into 
profound  Avretchedness.  At  the  death  of  Vise  he 
addressed  a  petition  to  Louis  XIY.  for  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  the  publication  of  the  Mercury : — 

May  it  please  you.  sire,  my  privilege  to  renew, 
And  grant  my  i)atent-right  to  cheer  and  gladden  you. 

lie  obtained  it,  and  thus  commenced  his  duties: — 

"  Mercury  flies  with  outspread  wings, 

To  search  me  out,  through   all  the  universe, 
The  cleverest  jokes  and  newest  things 

Both  true  and  false,  as  well  in   pmse  as  verse; 
From  which  I'll  choose,  seeking  Minerva's  aid, 
But  vain  I  call  the  blue-eyed  maid. 
She'll  not  to  me  incline, 
I  can  not  hope  that  fire  ilivine, 
Save  from  the  god  of  wine. 

After  this  preface  he  composed  tales  of  the  school 
ot  Le  Sage,  and  some  very  weak  criticisms,  but 
among  tliem  a  very  curious  and  original  parallel 
between  lli)mer  and  Iia])elais.  After  all,  he  was 
more  of  a  poet  than  a  journalist  and  was  unable  to  l)e 
hmiiorous  and  sensible  at  fixed  hours.  In  his  hands 
the  Mercury  ran  great  risk  of  appearing  only  once 
in  six  weeks.  At  lirst,  thanks  to  the  solicitude  of 
his  wife,  everything  went  on  in  the  best  possible 
maimer,  l)ut  his  wife  having  died  din-ing  the  second 
year,  he  got  tired  of  his  journal,  and  sold  the  privilege 
cf  jmblication.  The  death  of  his  wife,  as  he  has 
said,  brought  the  autumn  of  his  life  t(j  winter;  ho 
regretted  until  the  day  of  his  death,  the  sad  but 
ha|»py  hours  passed  beside  his  dear,  ruddy,  mild 
Ang(;Ii<pic. 


40  DUFRF.SA  1 . 

From  1715  to  ITIO,  Dnfrcsny  lived  no  one  knows 
wliere  or  liow ;  it  is  tlionnlit  that  he  passed  his  time 
ill  the  suhurlis  of  Paris,  in  the  suite  of  some  noble- 
man directing  masons  and  gardeners;  perliaps  he  re- 
tired silently  on  the  pittance  produced  hy  the  sale  of 
the  Mercnry,  weej)inn-  tor  his  wife,  and  cultivating 
liis  i-oscs  at  Vincennes.  It  is  certain,  however,  that 
at  the  period  of  Law's  scheme,  he  found  himself  in 
snch  distress  that  lie  presented  this  strange  petition 
to  the  Duke  of  Orleans:  "It  is  needful  for  your 
glory,  monseignenr,  to  leave  Dufresny  in  his  extreme 
poverty,  so  that  at  least  one  man  may  remain  in  a 
situation,  which  will  remind  men  that  the  whole  kinc;- 
doin,  before  yon  lent  yonrself  to  its  aid,  was  as  poor 
as  Dufresny."  The  regent  wrote  nangjit  at  the  foot  of 
the  petition,  and  sent  an  order  to  Law  to  pay  two 
hundred  thousand  livres  to  Dufresny  :  he  knew  that 
the  poet  belonsred  to  the  familv.  Dufresnv  hastened 
to  spend  the  money.  lie  built  a  fine  mansion  in  the 
faubourg  St.  Antoine,  which  he  called  the  House  of 
Pliny.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  spent  his 
money  at  the  proper  time,  for  the  two  hundred 
thousand  livres  were  in  l^ank-notes.  Six  months 
later  he  would  have  suffered  in  Law's  Ijankruptcy  ; 
but  Dufresny  was  not  such  a  fool  as  to  keep  his 
bank-notes  in  his  pocket. 

He  died  in  1724-,  aged  seventy-five,  cahnly,  like  a 
mail  who  has  nothing  more  to  do  in  this  woi-ld.  In 
his  latter  days  he  saw  his  children  again,  who  had 
become  zealous  devotees  :  to  please  them  he  burnt 
a  large  manuscript,  containing  four  comedies,  the 
c<»nlinuation  of  the  ''''Amusements  comiques  et  seri- 
<?Ma',"     tales,  songs,  and  memoirs.     Heaven  forgivo 


niS    POKTEAIT.  41 

his  cliiklren,  for  Dufresnv  reduced  to  ashes  much  wit 
and  giivety.  He  died  in  the  auturnn,  like  a  good 
jtoet  and  a  good  Christian.  He  saw  his  garden  from 
liis  bed  ;  his  hist  glance  passed  over  the  flowers  as 
they  faded,  and  was  lost  in  the  azure  heaven  with 
his  soul. 

I  have  seen  his  portrait  by  Coy])el.  It  represents 
a  man  of  sixty  yeai-s,  but  still  tresh  and  sprightly. 
His  charming  head  is  buried  in  a  forest  of  hair,  his 
smile  is  marked  l)y  intelligence  and  good  humor,  the 
most  beautiful  smile  in  the  world.  His  dear  Angel- 
ique,  the  washerwoman,  has  not  forgotten  his  shirt- 
frill  and  ruffles.  His  hand  is  ornamented  with  a 
diamond,  and  what  is  still  better,  with  an  impatient 
])en  whose  point  is  far  from  being  blunted.  The  at- 
tributes of  science  are  represented  as  his  armorial 
l)earings.  And,  in  reality,  was  not  this  man,  though 
he  never  opened  a  book,  a  savant  in  action?  He 
l)ad  studied  love  in  his  heart,  grandeur  at  the 
court,  war  upon  the  field  of  battle,  architecture  in 
the  erection  of  buildings,  nature  in  his  garden, 
l»oetrv  and  music  in  son":.  Thus  Dufresnv's  science 
d  id  n<;)t  depend  upon  books  ;  she  dropped  her  dreamy 
head,  and  seemed  lost  in  recollection.  Dufresny's 
Works  form  seven  volumes,  M'ithout  including  his 
"Theatre  l>ouffon,"  which  is  full  of  humorous  pas- 
sages. His  tales,  which  are  tliose  of  a  })hiloso])her, 
arc  written  with  too  much  carelessness.  Dufresnv 
thought  rather  than  wrote.  His  comedies,  always 
original,  are  fjrmed  a  little  on  the  model  of  his  life, 
no  logic  in  the  intrigue,  but  wit  of  the  true  stam]->, 
graci-ful  satire,  a  charming  disoi-der,  all  goes  by 
jinziird  as  in  tlie  actual  conu-dv  of  human  lih*.    Tiiui 

4*  " 


i'2  DUFRESNT. 

ill  the  liiiiitiMl  liorizun  of  the  tlieiitrc  wlicre  so  much 
art  is  needed  to  group  the  scenes  haiMiitMiioiisly 
around  tlie  idea  to  be  expressed,  the  iiiiciirhed 
comedit^s  of  J.)uf Vesny  were  not  always  well  received. 
]\rore  than  one  pleasant  scene  produced  a  smile,  more 
than  one  eharmin<^  hon-mot  i)assed  from  mouth  to 
month,  hut  tliat  M'as  often  the  limit  of  their  success. 
If  you  want  to  see  Dufresny's  work  par  excellence, 
you  must  consult  "  Zes  Aninsements  comf'qiies  et  se- 
rieux,-^  which  is  tlie  work  in  which  he  displays 
his  originality  without  restraint.  Each  page  of 
this  little  volume  contains  some  good  sentiment  on 
human  philosophy.  It  is  the  l>ook  of  a  thinker, 
who  ex])i'esses  himself  as  a  wit.  AVe  listen  gayly 
to  him  in  this  treatise,  which  is  serious  only  in 
its  satire.  "I  have  given  to  the  ideas  which  have 
come  into  my  head  the  name  (»f  AtnvfieDients  ^ 
thev  will  he  crrave  or  cav  according  to  the  lunnor 
I  am  in  while  writing  them,  or  the  humor  you 
are  in  Avhile  reading  them."  This  satire  is,  as  yon 
know,  a  journey  through  Paris.  Dufresny  departs 
for  this  still  unknown  country  with  a  native  of 
Siain,  "  whose  bizarre  and  figurative  ideas"  con- 
trast at  every  step  with  his  own  and  sharpen  liis  wit. 
Thus  at  the  Tuileries,  the  Siamese  exclaims  at  the 
sight  of  its  charming  promenadei's  :  "  Oh,  the  beau- 
tiful aviary!  oh,  what  charming  birds!"  —  "They 
are,"  says  Dufresny,  fjllowing  out  the  same  idea, 
"  amusing  birds  who  change  their  plumage  two  or  three 
times  a  day  —  volatile  l)y  inclination,  feeble  by  na- 
ture, gay  in  i)lumage,  they  see  the  dawn  only  at  sun- 
set, walkiuiT  with  their  feet  raised  a  foot  from  the 
ground,  touching  the  clouds  with  their  superl)  tufts.. 


HIS    BICST   WORK.  43 

In  a  word,  most  women  are  peacocks  at  the  prome- 
nade, magpies  in  domestic  life,  doves  in  a  tete-a-tete. 
There  are  also  varions  nations  among  these  prome- 
naders — the  polished  nation  of  the  ttishionahle  ladies, 
the  savage  one  of  the  provincials,  the  free  one  of  the 
co(piettes,  the  nneonqneral)le  one  of  the  faithfnl, 
the  docile  one  of  the  nnfaithfnl,  the  wandering  one 
of  the  cjvpsies."  He  continues  thus  :  "  AVe  have  two 
sorts  of  promenades  at  Paris,  the  one,  people  frequent 
to  see  and  to  be  seen,  the  other,  neither  to  see  nor  to 
he  seen  by  anybody.  Ladies  inclined  to  solitude 
voluntarily  seek  the  by-paths  of  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
loquCi,  where  they  serve  as  mutual  guides  to  lose  one 
another."  Montesquieu  found  in  this  book  not  merely 
the  i(h:a^  but  the  ^V/cv^s',  too,  of  the  Persian  Letters. 
Dnfresnv  contented  himself  with  a  rai)id  tour. 
Moiitesipiieu  followed  with  a  slowness  of  reflection 
in  the  poet's  footsteps. 

AVith  a  little  less  of  that  inaction  which  forms 
the  charms  of  the  happy  hours  of  his  life,  and  a 
little  less  of  poetry  in  action,  Dufresny,  with  his 
liappy  endowments,  would  have  ranked  among  the 
great  poets.  At  least  he  is  among  those  whom 
Fame  does  not  dare  to  place  in  the  inferior  ranks ; 
he  stands  by  himself,  neither  small  nor  large, 
chamiing  :  and  that  is  all.  AVith  fewer  certain  re- 
sources, but  more  patience  and  study,  many  second- 
ary writers  appear  to  have  surpassed  him.  Had 
Montesquieu,  who  drew  his  first  book  tVom  a  work  of 
Dufresny 's,  his  exquisite  talent?  With  Montesquieu, 
jiatience  was  everything ;  his  was  the  genius  of  reflec- 
tion. It  was  not  until  he  was  thii-ty-two  years  old — 
rich,  noble — his  name  well  known  in  the  fashionable 


44  dufim;sny. 

world,  that  he  ventured  upon  his  lirst  work  ;  tlie  easy 
succefS  (»f  tlic  Persuin  L-.-tters  conducted  its  author 
to  the  Academy  forthwith,  while  Dufresny  died  in 
oblivion. 

Dut'resnv  was  alwavs  sin<>;ino;  while  cultivatino;  his 
roses,  impruvi sin r);l)oth words  and  music,  but  like  a 
true  poet  who  detests  books,  he  never  preserved 
either  the  words  or  the  music  :  words  and  music 
passed  away  with  the  wind.  An  echo,  j)reserved  by 
chance,  is  all  that  has  come  down  to  ns  of  his  many 
songs.  There  is  a  truly  Gallic  turn  in  his  musical 
philosophy,  as  in  Les  Lendemains^  Les  Cloches, 
and  La  CJi.anso7i  des  Vendanges. 

Tlie  same  books  are  continually  reprinted,  but  they 
are  little  read,  or  they  are  not  read  at  all :  the  mas- 
ter-pieces of  a  nation  are  in  the  minds  of  every  one^ 
they  are  known  before  they  are  read.  A  celebrated 
book  is  a  tradition  spread  from  mouth  to  mouth  —  it 
is  a  museum  wlience  all  the  painters  have  taken 
a  picture.  I  know  all  the  Wouvelle  Heloise  by  heart, 
thouo;h  it  is  chance  whether  I  have  ever,  durinn;  a 
studious  or  an  idle  day,  read  twenty  pages  of  it. 
The  books  to  re^jrint  are  the  unknown  books,  many 
of  which  are  delightful.  AYluit  an  attractive  vol- 
ume could  be  made  from  Dufresny 's  seven  —  two 
comedies,  two  tales,  four  songs,  Les  Amusements 
comiques  et  serieux.  Thus  composed  it  would 
be  one  of  the  most  pleasing  volumes  in  French 
literature. 

I  wished,  as  a  good  historiographer,  to  hear  some 
of  Dufresny's  music.  A  violoncellist  played  for  me. 
with  mucli  disdain,  some  of  the  old  naive  and  sim- 
ple airs.     It  is  almost  the  music  of  Jean  Jaccpies — 


dijfeesny's  roses.  45 

it  has  the  same  languishing  sweetness.     Good  music 
for  a  solitary  valley,  but  too  quiet  for  Paris. 

Dufresny  is  a  poet  rather  by  his  life  than  by  his 
writino;s.  He  is  the  traveller  who  has  not  had  time 
to  write  out  his  journal  amidst  the  confusion  of  his 
adventures.  Here  and  there,  however,  on  meeting 
Avith  a  fair  landscape,  he  has  jotted  down  in  passing- 
some  exj^ression,  charming  in  thought  £ind  feeling. 
But,  most  often,  when  his  adventurous  voyage  left 
him  an  hour  of  repose,  he  hid  himself  in  his  garden 
and  cultivated  his  roses ;  it  was  the  sole  labor  he 
recognised.  How  many  flowers  of  eloquence  and 
of  poetry,  famous  in  their  day,  have  had  neither  the 
reputation,  the  perfume,  nor  the  permanence  of  the 
roses  of  Dufresny ! 


FONTENELLE. 


A  VERY  curious  spectacle  was  presented  on  tlie  7tli 
of  February,  1 765,  at  the  hotel  of  llel vetius.  Madame 
Ilelvetius,  who  was  not  a  philosopher,  thanks  to  her 
l)eautiful  eyes,  inaugurated  the  festivities  of  the  car- 
nival by  a  niagniticent  ball  to  which  all  who  were 
distinguished  in  Paris  for  brilliancy  of  wit,  beauty, 
or  grace,  were  invited.  It  was  a  charjning  world,  bad 
catlK)lic  but  ffood.  Christian,  sinninsr  in  broad  dav- 
light,  but  giving  alms  in  the  shade,  already  laughing 
at  titles  of  nobility  as  at  titles  ecclesiastic,  calling 
Richelieu  the  Grand  Duke  of  the  Boudoir,  and 
Yoisenon,  the  Archbishop  of  the  Comedie-Italienne. 

The  curious  spectacle  at  the  ball  of  Madame  Ilel- 
vetius, on  the  7th  of  February,  1755,  was  not  owing 
to  the  scandal  caused  by  the  amours  of  Grimm  and 
Madame  d'Epinay,  at  the  expense  of  Jean  Jacrpies 
Housseau,  but  to  the  opening  of  the  ball  by  an  old 
poet  with  Mademoiselle  Ilelvetius.  This  old  poet, 
gnrnamed  the  old  shepherd,  was  M.  de  Fontenelle; 
then  mor-e  than  ninety-eight  years  old.  As  for  his 
partner.  Mademoiselle  Ilelvetius,  she  was  only  a 
year-and-a-half. 


SCAJ^DAL.  47 

This  evening  he  kept  them  waiting  a  little  for  him. 
"  So  much  the  woi-se  ;  we  will  wait,"  said  Madame 
Ilelvetius. — "'  It  is  coquetry,"  said  Madame  d'Epinay 
— "  I  am  very  sure,"  said  Montcrif,  "  that  he  will 
make  his  appearance  covered  with  all  the  gewgaws 
of  frivolity." — "  You  see  I  was  right  when  I  wrote 
'The  style  is  the  man,'"  said  M.  de  Button,  smooth- 
ing his  ruffles. — "You  are  mischievous.  Monsieur  de 
Butfon,"  said  Madame  d'Angeville,  with  a  charming 
little  curl  of  the  lip;  "since  they  have  gone  so  far 
as  to  style  M.  de  Fontenelle  the  old  shepherd,  be- 
cause he  has  a  little  that  is  simple  and  unafiected 
in  him." — "If  it  were  so,  madame,"  said  Duclos, 
witli  none  too  much  gallantr}^,  "he  could  have  retained 
his  real  name,  Le  Bouvier  [the  cowherd],  which 
certainly  does  very  well.  Witli  a  name  like  that  he 
could  have  made  good  and  unaffected  eclogues  which 
smelt  of  the  grass  of  the  fields;  but  when  one  is 
called  Fontenelle,  he  is  nothing  more  than  a  little 
fountain,  pattering  on  the  stones  with  a  petty  mo- 
notonous murmur;  still  an  eclogue,  if  you  will,  but 
what  an  eclomic !  All  this  mav  be  said  without  in- 
jury  to  the  genius  of  M.  de  Fontenelle." 

Montcrif,  a  disciple  of  Fontenelle,  took  up  the 
convei-sation.  "In  faith,"  said  he,  "I  think  that  M. 
Duclos  regards  the  eclogue  in  much  the  same  light 
as  the  old  abbe  Delanie,  who  naively  takes  the  cows 
to  water  in  a  stanza." — "And  why  not?"  exclaimed 
Duclos;  "it  is  a  great  fault,  truly,  to  call  things  l)y 
their  right  names !" 

Madame  Ilelvetius  hastened  to  appease  the  critics 
"  ]\[or,sieur  Duclos,  they  want  you  by  the  firej)lace. 
As   for  you,   Monsiuur   Montcrif,   tell    us   of  y«>ui 


48  rONTENETJ.K. 

caning  rencontre  witli  the  ]H)et.  Kvervixxlv  is  talk- 
inir  abtmt  it.  JMadanie  de  la  Tioclietoiicanlt  "wonld 
he  most  cliarined  t(»  have  a  good  version  of  tlie  little 
storv." — "•  I  thank  i\radan.ie  de  la  Ilechet'oncanlt ;  I 
■\vill  relate  it  to  hei'  the  more  willingly,  as  the  jjoet 
who  WHS  the  recipient  l>lays  the  best  part  in  it.  In 
my  leisnre  moments  I  liad  wiitten  on  eats.  It  was 
the  ajKilogy  of  the  cats  and  at  the  same  time  that  of 
tlie  women.  Perhaj)S  I  had  deceived  myself,  bnt  I 
thonght  I  wrote  in  all  sincei'ity.  The  poet  Roy  had 
christened  me  for  this  misdeed,  the  liistoriograjiher  of 
cats.  The  joke  met  witli  snecess  in  society.  I  vowed 
revenge.  As  there  is  bnt  one  weapon  against  Hoy,  the 
cane,  I  took  a  cane;  I  went  where  I  knew  I  shonld 
find  hini,  an<l  at  the  same  time  that  I  reminded  him 
of  his  satire,  raised  tlie  cane  with  anger.  Do  yon  know 
what  the  poor  devil  said  to  me,  the  historiographer  ot 
cats? — 'l)raw  in  your  claws,  pnssy  !  don't  scratch  ! 
draw  in  your  soft  paws !'  You  may  well  suppose  that 
I  dropi)ed  the  stick.  However,  I  ought  rather  to  have 
told  you  M.  de  Fontenelle's  last  joke,  wliich  is  more 
in  the  order  of  the  day — "  — "That  is  not  to  be  told 
too  loud,"  said  Madame  Ilelvetius,  with  a  charming 
smile. — "Who  told  it  to  you,  then ?"  said  Madame 
d'Epinay,  mischievously.  "  Come,  come !"  cried 
Duclos,  "  it  is  only  citizens'  wives  and  dancing-girls 
who  take  offence  at  a  little  gayety." — ""Well,"  con- 
tinued Montcrif,  "last  week  Fontenelle  went  one 
morning  to  see  a  very  pretty  woman,  mIio  has  taken 
the  abl)c  de  Bernis  as  her  confessor.  The  lady  came 
out  to  Fontenelle  in  her  deshabille.  'You  see,'  said 
she  to  him, '  that  we  get  up  for  you.' — '  Yes,'  answered 
Fontenelle;  'but  you  go  to  bed  for  somebody  else."' 


FONTENKI-I.K    IX    PKEPAEATION.  49 

—"Don't  go  too  far,  Monsieur  de  Montcrif,  we  can 
gness  the  rest,"  said  Madame  de  la  Ilocliefoncanlt,  a 
little  too  late. 

Meantime,  while  tliey  were  waiting  for  him  in  the 
saloons  of  llelvetius,  Fontenelle  M-a&  doing  his  best 
to  furbish  up  his  person  and  his  wit.  "  Kinon,"  said 
he  to  one  of  his  nieces,  the  youngest  of  the  demoiselles 
de  Marcillj,  who  was  at  times  his  handmaiden, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  my  looks  now  ?  Come  ;  I  will 
not  ask  with  my  hand  on  my  heart,  but  with  my 
hand  on  niv  eves,  is  it  true  that  I  have  no  more  grace 
in  my  smile,  or  fire  in  my  glance  ?  Men  do  not  stop 
at  eighty,  Kinon  ;  I  am  beginning  to  grow  old  rather 
fast ;  in  fine,  we  must  expect  everything,  even  death." 
— ''  Oh,  uncle,"  answered  Mademoiselle  de  Marcilh^, 
"the  little  loves  are  still  crouching  in  the  curls  of 
your  pei-uke  !  Trust  me,  you  will  make  a  conquest  to- 
night !  You  would  be  sure  to  have  more  success  than 
I  if  we  wej"e  both  to  dance  a  miinict  at  the  same  time." 
— "Are  my  ruffles  to  your  liking,  Xinon  ? " — "Yes, 
nncle ;  they  were  intended,  yon  know,  by  Madame 
de  Froidmont  for  his  lordship  the  archbishop." 

All  the  while  that  he  was  arranging  himself  with 
liis  niece,  Fontenelle  was  taxing  his  memory  to  put  in 
play  all  the  resources  of  his  mind,  which,  no  longer 
capable  of  jiction,  was  still  tricked  off  with  tinsel.  It 
was,  if  we  may  credit  Rollin  and  Duclos,  a  sad  spec- 
tacle to  see  this  being,  almost  an  automaton,  who 
looked  as  if  he  had  come  out  of  his  gi-ave  for  the 
twentieth  time,  this  rattling  skeleton,  still  seeking  in 
liis  vanitv  for  noise  and  flitter.  Even  in  lM)ntenolle's 
best  days,  ids  intellect  had  not  carried  away  every- 
body ;    ])lenty  of  peoi^le,  finding  neither  profundity 


50  rONTKNKLLE. 

nor  truth,  nothing  natural  or  spontaneous,  liad  with- 
ch-awu  from  th(>  herd  ;  but  then,  at  least,  the  poet 
saved  his  credit  bv  the  aid  of  his  i'-i'i'Ce  and  his  youth. 
l>ut  when  over  eightv,  to  dnig-  everywhere  the  super- 
annuated parapliei'ualia  of  a  wit,  to  desire  to  strew 
rosedeaves  over  Ids  faded  lips,  to  play  the  fop  and  the 
ndlkscjp,  was  but  the  sign  of  the  man  of  intellect  sunk 
into  second  childhood. 

At  last  Fontcnelle  set  out  in  the  caiiiage  of 
Madame  do  Forgeville,  in  company  with  the  two 
demoiselles  Marcilly.  During  the  ride  he  repeated 
Ins  lesson  like  a  child. — "Let  us  see,"  lie  muttered 
to  himself;  "I  must  make  money  out  of  everything 
to-night.  That  memorable  hush  has  been  scarcely 
lieard  of  for  these  four  or  five  years.  I  can  still 
return  to  it.  I  have  also  lately  (it  was  scarcely  more 
than  twenty  years  ago)  hit  on  a  capital  paradox:  If 
I  had  my  hands  fall  erf'  truths,  I  should  take  good 
care  not  to  ojjen  them.  That  always  produces  its 
effect.  Xot  to  forget  my  tender  things  to  the  women, 
and  my  graceful  turns  of  speech.  There  is  no  more 
time  to  be  lost." 

As  Montcrif  was  interrupted  by  Madame  de  la 
llochefoucault,  the  doors  of  the  great  saloon  were 
thrown  open. — "There  he  is!  it  is  M.  Fontenelle!" 
was  exclaimed  on  all  sides.  Madame  Ilelvetius 
rushed  forward  to  meet  him.  He  bowed,  still  grace- 
fully, seized  her  hand,  and  I'aised  it  gallantly  to  his 
centenary  lips. — "Monsieur  de  Fontenelle,  do  you 
know  that  we  were  waiting  for  you  to  open  the 
dance?" — "It  was  because  I  knew  it  that  1  came 
late ;  ovei-look  this  little  bit  of  coquetry :  poets  are 
women,   foi'   which   I   have    no    cause  of  complaint. 


OPEinxG  THE  i>Axci:.  51 

And  besides,  if  I  must  tell  everything,  I  have  a 
domestic  who  serves  me  as  badly  as  if  I  had  tweutv." 
Foiitenelle  was  placed  alongside  of  Madame  de 
Froidmont,  who  was  ninety -five. — "  Ah,  my  poor  old 
shepherd  I ''  said  she  to  him,  tossing  her  head,  and 
lisping  a  little,  "Iiow  old  we  are  getting!" — "Hush  ! 
Death  forgets  ns,"  said  Fontenelle,  putting  his  finger 
on  his  lips,  and  assuring  liimself  that  all  eyes  were 
upon  him.  This  joke  had  still  great  success;  every- 
body applauded. — "  I  have  cheated  Nature  ;  I  have 
somewhat  of  a  Xorman's  cunning  in  that  respect." 
— When  Fontenelle  had  collected  all  the  beautiful 
smiles  which  were  dii-ected  on  his  locks,  whitened  by 
so  manv  winters,  he  asked  liis  neiijhbor  what  svas 
mider  discussion  when  he  entered. — "I  am  a  little 
deaf  and  1  do  not  see  very  well ;  mv  lieavv  bairo-ao-e 
lias  been  sent  on  in  advance ;  but  it  is  only  neces- 
sary for  me  to  know  the  title  of  the  chapter  to  under- 
stand the  conversation." — Ilelvetius  answered  him 
that  the  poets  on  one  side,  and  the  philosophers  on 
tlie  other,  had  been  agitating  the  (piestion  for  an  hour, 
whether  science  was  necessary  fur  the  happiness  of 
mankind. — "  Ah,  my  philosopher,  yon  have  preached 
np  science,  but,  be  not  angry,  you  are  mistaken. 
What  need  liave  we  of  the  light  of  the  lanterns  of 
science  to  lead  ns  to  everlasting  darkness?  " 

Mademoiselle  Ilelvetius,  who  was  scarce!}'  able  to 
walk  yet,  was  led  in  at  this  moment.  "  See,"  said  he, 
"my  ])ai"tner  is  weary  of  waiting;  come,  my  legs, 
be  a  little  lively,  if  you  ])lease  — come  on  !"  He  rose 
and  conducted  the  young  dancer  by  the  hand  to  the 
middle  of  the  I'oom.  Then,  as  if  by  ciicliaiitiiiciit, 
graceful  groups  formed  around  him.      lie  was  at  first 


;»2  i-'(wrKNi:LLE. 

ilazzlod  l)v  the  dresses,  the  looks,  tlie  flowers,  the 
smiles,  the  entire  ])oiiip  of  luxury  and  heauty — he 
felt  his  logs  shake,  he  thong-Jit  for  a  nionient  that  his 
soul  was  about  to  depart  fi'oni  his  body  in  the  dance; 
but  he  soon  rallied,  and  as  soon  as  the  musicians  had 
connnenced  with  an  air  of  llousseau,  he  advanced 
at  his  own  risk  and  peril,  keeping  continually  hold 
of  his  partner's  hand.  Evei'y  one  closely  observed 
this  singular  spectacle  of  old  age  and  infancy,  car- 
ried around  in  the  same  whirl.  After  the  iii'st  iiijure 
it  was  necessary  to  force  Fontenelle  to  rest  himself. 
"Come,"  said  Madame  d'Epinay,  '*God  be  praised, 
you  have  got  tlu'ough  with  a  difficult  stej)." — "It  is 
the  one  before  the  last,"  said  Fontenelle,  reseating 
himself.  "  When  the  last  comes,  I  may  make  a  wiy 
face,  but  at  least  after  that  1  shall  have  a  long 
rest." — "  There  is,"  said  Madame  d'E[)inay,  "  an 
old  proverb  which  says:  'It  is  oidy  the  fii'st  step 
tliat  costs  anything.'" — "That  proverb  is  not  com- 
mon sense ;  the  step  which  costs  the  most  is  the  last. 
The  first  step !  ah,  madame,  why  could  we  not  have 
made  it  togethei-  ?     Ah,  if  I  was  only  eighty  !  " 

Fontenelle  went  on  in  this  way  for  moi'e  than  an 
hour.  Madame  d'Epinay,  who  did  not  dance  then, 
for  certain  I'casons,  listened  with  curiosity  to  the 
amiable  vagaries  of  the  poet.  She  was  not  the  only 
one — Madame  de  Rochefoncault,  Madame  de  Foi-ge- 
ville,  and  some  others,  came  and  gathered  around 
him  ;  while  in  another  corner  of  the  i-oom,  Duclos, 
Grimm,  Colle,  and  Diderot,  were  narrating  with  some 
severity,  certain  chapters  of  his  history. 

The  history  of  Fontenelle  can  soon  be  told.  lie 
lived  a  hundred  years;    but  was  it  in  truth  worth 


HIS  i;iKTn.  53 

while  for  liiin  to  make  the  tour  of  a  century  ?  This 
poet  without  poetry,  this  petticoat  philosopher,  this 
inau  without  soul,  this  sage  of  the  boudoir,  this  Fou- 
teuelle,  in  tine,  might  surely  have  died  half  a  cen- 
tury sooner,  without  any  loss  to  ns  or  to  himself 
except  a  little  noise  and  smoke.  At  ninety-eight  he 
said,  "  I  have  neither  laughed  nor  wept."  Let  us 
pity,  pity  this  proud  man,  because  lie  never  laughed, 
and  because  he  never  wept. 

He  came  into  the  world  at  Kouen  in  the  middle 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  "  Truly,"  said  lie,  at  a 
later  period,  "  I  did  not  look  as  if  I  had  come  into 
the  world  to  make  a  loiii;  stav.  I  was  so  feeble 
that  the  liirht  alone  nearlv  killed  me."  His  mother, 
Martha  Corneille,  was  sister  to  the  celebrated  Pierre 
and  Thomas  Corneille.  This  shows  us  how  Fon- 
tanelle  came  to  be  a  poet.  His  father,  Francois  Le 
Bouvier,  a  lawyer  of  little  fame,  was  well  read  in 
polite  literature.  He  was  a  matter-of-fact  man,  of  a 
melancholy  and  irascible  tempci'ament.  His  mother, 
in  contrast,  was  mild  and  i2:enial.  Althou<i;h  a  2;ood 
catholic,  she  pardoned  her  brothers  for  their  profane 
productions.  The  young  Bernard  went  through  his 
earliest  studies  at  the  Jesuit  college  of  his  native 
town.  He  advanced  from  the  first  by  great  strides 
through  the  realms  of  science.  Thus,  when  thirteen, 
he  wrote  a  Latin  poem  on  the  Annunciation^  for  the 
])rize  of  the  Palinodes,  thought  worth}^  to  be  printed 
if  nut  to  obtain  the  prize  ;  but  from  that  time  he  fell 
oft'  a  little.  Li  philosophy  he  stopped  short,  being 
r(M»elled  by  the  thorns  of  scholastic  loc;ic.  His  com- 
jadits  hoped  at  last  to  have  their  revenge.  "  Now," 
tjaid    he,   long   afterward,  "  I  could    not   succeed    so 

5* 


6-i  T-'ONTKNi;i,IJ5. 

quickly  in  pliilosoplij,  for  the  ver}'  I'cason  that  I  was 
a  philoso})lier.  Hut  as,  from  a  very  early  period,  I 
did  not  trouble  myself  nnich  about  anything,  I 
did  not  choose  to  nnderstand  anything  ahont  logic  ; 
1  ended  hy  nnderstanding  something  of  it;  I  soon 
saw  that  it  was  not  worth  the  trouble  of  understand- 
ing." 

After  an  enthusiastic  study  of  physics,  he  M'ent 
through  a  law  course,  and  was  admitted.  A  good 
cause  came  in  his  way.  He  undertook  the  defence 
of  a  poor  devil,  perhaps  wrongfully  accused.  After 
some  explanations  the  judges  were  about  to  acquit 
him  ;  but  Fontanclle,  not  wishing  to  lose  the  effect 
of  his  argument,  which  contained  a  great  deal  about 
the  Ci reeks  and  llomans,  demanded  to  be  heard,  to 
complete  the  reparation  of  the  accused,  llo  ar- 
gued with  more  of  show  than  substance.  "In  a 
word,"  says  the  abbe  Desfontaines  in  his  joui-nal, 
"ho  did  so  well,  that  the  arrows  which  he  pointed 
became  weapons  against  the  accused."  After  the 
])leadings,  the  judges  fatigued  with  all  this  display, 
and  mistrusting  some  subterfuge,  exercised  their  pow- 
ers with  rigor,  and  the  poor  devil  was  condenmed, 
thanks  to  liis  lawyer,  Avho  did  not  afterward  find  any 
one  to  defend. 

Thomas  Corneille  took,  on  a  visit  to  Paris,  Fonto- 
nelle  with  him.  Thomas  was  then  conducting  the 
Jfercure  Galant  with  Vise.  The  colmnns  of  this 
journal  were  opened  to  the  new-comer  who  scattered 
therein  the  primroses  of  his  imagination,  primroses 
without  fi-eshness  and  without  perfume.  It  was  in 
this  that  he  achieved  his  first  success.  The  year  fol- 
lowing, after  his  return  to  llouen.  Vise  wrote  in  the 


EETUKNING    TO    EOUKN. 


Mercvre  the  apologj  of  the  joniig  Korinan  Muse 
lamenting  his  too  long  sojourn  far  from  Paris.  Fon- 
tanelle  returned  after  liaving  obtained  the  second 
prize  fi-om  the  French  Academy.  Inimediatelj  on 
his  return  he  wrote  on  the  scenario  of  liis  uncle 
Thomas,  the  verses  for  two  operas,  which  attracted 
some  attention,  Psyche  and  Belltro])hon.  These 
operas  were  followed  by  a  tragedy,  As])ei\  which 
would  be  forgotten  without  the  epigram  of  Racine 
on  the  origin  of  hisses.  He  abandoned  the  theatie 
in  some  disgust.  He  was  a  journalist  and  nothing 
more,  so  lie  set  to  work  at  newspaper  writing  by  the 
volume.  As  soon  as  he  had  people's  eyes  turned  to- 
ward him,  Fontenelle  exerted  all  the  powers  of  his 
faculties  with  the  wretched  aim  of  being  always 
an  object  of  public  attention.  Vanity  was  his  sole 
companion,  his  sole  love,  his  sole  joy.  Not  being 
able  to  be  a  man  of  genius,  and  knowing  well  that 
liis  memory  would  not  long  survive  him,  he  seized 
on  celebrity  with  both  hands,  he  fought  with  his  in- 
tellect to  liis  death.  "If  he  makes  much  ado  about 
dying,"  said  Duclos,  laughing,  "  it  is  because  he 
knows  but  too  well  that  once  in  the  other  woi-ld,  he 
will  have  nothing  to  contend  for  in  this." 

He  I'eturned  again  to  Ilouen,to  write,  in  solitude  and 
quiet,  The  Plwralttij  of  Worlds.  The  Marchioness  de 
la  ^[esengere  was  living  at  that  time  in  her  chateau 
at  llouen.  Fontanelle  was  received  there  as  a  poet; 
he  ])assed  all  the  fine  afternoons  in  the  park.  Tvow 
and  then,  he  promenaded  with  the  mai'chioncss,  who 
mom-ned  over  the  recoHections  of  a  fatal  uffectidii.  V>y 
dint  of  walking  with  iier  and  seeing  her  weep,  he 
imagined   that  he  was  falling  in  love  with  her.      Ntit 


no  FONTICNKLLE. 

knowing  ]ui\v  to  begin,  as  ho  took  connsol  of  liis  li(>;ul 
aiul  not  of  liis  heart,  he  imitated  the  slie]ih(!r(ls.  lie 
traced  passionate  verses  on  the  hark  of  tlie  heech 
trees.  If  wo  may  believe  the  abbo  Ti-nl)lot,  these 
verses,  carved  by  Fonteiielle,  were  still  to  be  seen  in 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century, 

"  Lvridas  is  so  toiidor,  and  Clviiuiu   Ixiks  so  well, 
\Vli;it  will  become  of  li!in  V 

Oil,  Love,  wage  war  on  her  !  — that  heart  of  stone  suhdue  ! 
Oil,  Love,  oh,  cruel  Love  !  " 

AN'hon  Fontenollo  had  -written  this  blaidv  vei'sc,  he 
turned  toward  the  windows  of  Madame  do  la  Mes- 
engere. — "Some  day,"  said  he  to  himself,  "1  M'ill 
write  a  verse  there,  if  it  please  hor  beautiful  eves." 
lie  liad  neither  the  pleasure  nor  the  ti-oublo.  The 
next  day,  a  mischievous  hand — doubtless  that  of  the 
marchioness,  made  the  quatrain  rhyme,  as  follows: — 

"Lycidas  is  so  tender,  and  Clynicno  looks  so  well, 
What  will  become  of  Mm,  for  Clymene  doth  rebel? 
Oh,  Love,  wage  war  on  her,  that  heart  of  stone  subdue 
Oh,  Love,  oh,  cruel  Love,  what  luis  become  of  you? 


>  ) 


Fontenelle  did  not  consider  liimself  vanquished  on 
beholding  these  terrible  rhyines ;  he  urote  an  icy 
epistle  to  the  marchioness,  full  of  darts  atid  quiv- 
ers. Madame  de  la  Mosengore  was  unscathed  ;  she 
knew  how  to  make  a  better  disposition  of  her  heart. 
Ilowevei',  for  her  amusement,  she  pretended  to  soften 
a  little.  The  poet,  augui-ing  well  from  certain  chari- 
table glances,  had  recourse  again  to  the  bark  of  the 
beech-tree: — 


PASTORAI,    T.OVE.  57 

'*  Shepherdess  with  the  stonj  heart,  you.  who  can  rliymeso  well, 
Whose  one  soft  glance  hath  given  joy  that  words  cannot  express, 
Beneath  this  tree,  to  morrow  eve,  will  you  renew  the  spell  '•"' 

The  next  dav  Foiitenelle  rushed  to  the  beech-tree 
— Oil,  joy  !  oil,  transport! — the  rhyme  was  filled  out! 
It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  shepherdess  witli  the 
stonv  heart  had  written  "Yes,"  under  the  three 
lines.  You  can  guess  whether  Fontenelle  was  at 
the  trysting-place.  At  night-fall  he  saw  a  shadow 
among  the  beech-trees ;  he  advanced  with  trepidation, 
stretched  out  his  hands,  and  fell  upon  his  knees :  "  Ah, 
marchioness,  behold  me  dying  of  love  at  your  feet." 
— ''  Monsieur  Fontenelle,  I  am  right  sorry,  but  there 
has  been  some  mistake ;  I  am  not  the  marchioness.'' 
— P'ontenclle  M'as  verv  alert  in  risins^. — "  I  know  it 
very  well,"  said  he,  in  great  dismay ;  "  it  was  only 
a  ji»ke  ;  but  who  are  you,  then  ? " — "  Therese  —noth- 
ing more." — "  The  deuce  !  "  said  Fontenelle  ;  "  the 
maid  instead  of  the  mistress!  It  was  you,  then, 
who  wrote  a  word  on  the  beech-bark  ?  " — "  Good 
gracious !  thei'e  was  no  one  but  me  in  the  house  who 
could  have  been  a  shepherdess;  but  this  does  not 
obli<:;e  you  to  do  anvthin<r.  Monsieur  Fontenelle." 

lie  feigned  to  be  enamoured  with  La  Champ- 
inele,  not  because  she  was  pretty,  nor  from  love,  but 
fi-om  sheer  vanity.  "  M.  Ilacine,"  said  she  to  him 
one  day,  "  has  told  me  so  much  against  you,  that  I 
liave  filially  come  to  like  you,  besides,  your  univei'sal 
mind  pleads  marvellously  in  your  favor.  So  come 
and  see  mo.  Fontenelle  went  but  once.  Instead  of 
Madame  he  found  JMonsienr  Champmelo.  '"My  wife 
is  not  here,"  said  the  cumedian  to  him ;  '•  she  i.s 
rehearsing   her  part  with    that  animal    I>a  Fontaine, 


58  FONTICNKLI.IC. 

who  makes  half  my  pieces."  Fontenellc  liad  Jiis  la- 
bor for  Ill's  pains." 

He  liad  not  a  2;reat  number  of  mistresses.  Made- 
nioiselle  Bcrnai'd,  the  tragic  muse,  was  the  best  known 
and  the  least  fickle;  but  what  a  sorry  pair  of  loveis 
were  they  !  As  soon  as  he  readied  her  house,  forth- 
with to  work — that  is  to  say,  at  a  scene  of  a  tragedy ; 
ill  lieu  of  a  kiss,  only  a  couplet. 

Fontenellc  never  had  any  idea  of  marrying ;  he 
cared  naui^ht  for  the  loving  and  devoted  care  of  the 
wife,  for  the  little  children  who  make  our  hearts  so 
gay,  for  the  calm  joys  of  the  chimney-corner.  He 
never  loved  any  one  but  himself  ;  he  lived  with  him- 
self. Think  of  his  having  lived  so  lon<>;  in  such  com- 
pany !  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  vanity,  he  would 
have  died  of  ennui !  The  abbe  Trublet — always  the 
apologist  of  Fontenelle — thus  terminates  his  eulogy  : 
"  What  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  happiness  of  M. 
Fontenelle,  was  the  fact  of  his  never  liavino-  been 
married." — AV^hat  do  you  know  about  this  same  chap- 
ter of  marriage,  Monsieur  TAbbe  ? 

"Even  in  friendship,"  Delille  said,  "  Fontenelle  put 
his  heart  on  guard."  lie  had,  nevertheless,  a  great 
number  of  friends,  among  others,  the  duke  of  Orleans, 
La  Motte,  Marivaux,  Montcrif,  Madame  de  Tencin, 
Madame  de  Lambert,  and  ]\Ladame  de  Stack  The 
regent  liked  Fontenelle's  mind  as  one  likes  a  curious 
little  animal,  which  amuses  you  by  its  dexterity  and 
irentleness.  One  dav,  he  said  to  him,  "  Monsieur  de 
Fontanelle,  do  you  wish  to  live  in  the  Palais  Iloyal  ? 
A  man  who  has  written  the  Plurality  of  AV^orlds  ought 
to  be  lodged  in  a  palace." — "Prince,  a  wise  man 
takes  but  little  space,  and   dues  not  fancy  change; 


niS    KEPUELIC. 


but  for  all  that  I  will  come  and  take  np  my  luibita- 
tion  in  the  Palais  Royal  to-morrow,  with  arms  and 
bao-irage — that  is  to  say,  with  my  nightcap  and  slip- 
pui-s." — He  lived   a  long  time  at  the  Palais  Poyal. 
As  lie  scarcely  ever  saw  the  regent,  this  prince  said 
to  him  one  day,  "  In  offering  you  my  i-oof,  I  hoped  to 
see  yon  at  least  once  a  year."     Fonteiiellc  presented 
his  Elements  of  the  Geometry  of  the  Infinite  to  the 
reijent,  with  these  words:   "It  is  a  book  which  can 
only  be  nnderstood  by  seven  or  eight  geometricians 
of  Europe,  and  I  am  not  one  of  those  eight."     Fon- 
tenelle   had    the   vanity    of   schoolmasters;    he   Avas 
proud  of  his  title  of  academician ;  but  he  never  had 
any  active  ambition.    Thaidcs  to  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
lie  might  have  advanced  his  political  fortunes,  but  he 
preferred  to  keep  snug  among  his  academies.     His 
friend  Cardinal  Dubois  came  in  his  greatness,  to  seek 
for  consolations  from  him.     He  said  in  consequence 
of  this,  "I  know  very  well  that  his  royal  highness 
the    regent    might   have   made  some  great  political 
scarecrow  of  me;  but  I  heai-tily  entreated   him   to 
leave  me  in  my  chimney-corner,  for  there  I  never  had 
the  idea  of  seeking  consolation  from  Cardinal  Dubois." 
However,  as  he  wanted  to  show  off  his  philost^ph}' 
everywhere,   he  bestowed  a   little  of  it  on   politics. 
He  planned  a  republic,  which  was  not  e.xactly  that 
of  Phito;  a  curious  republic,  in  which  "wives  could 
repudiate  their  husbands  without  being  able  to  be 
repudiated  by  them,  but  were  to  remain  a  year  after 
without  the  power  of  i-enuu-rying.     No  orators  in  the 
whole  state  than  certain  orators  maintained  by  the 
state,  and   intcMided   U)  inaintain  to  the  people   tlic 
hap|»iness  oi  their  guveriniient.     Statues  to  be  erected 


GO  VONTKNKLLK. 

to  great  men,  of  whatever  kind,  even  to  hecndifal 
'/nonten  !  For  the  sake  of  greater  resemhUince,  their 
forms  may  even  be  preserved  in  wax,  in  a  magnifi- 
cent ]ialace,  made  crjyressly  for  tlie  pnipose.  Tliese 
statues  or  figures  to  be  ti-ied  foi'  offences  which  would 
not  subject  the  persons  to  corporeal  punisliments." — 
W^w  sec  from  this  tliat  Fontenelle  had  good  reasons 
for  leniainino-  snuijc  aiuouir  liis  academies.  With  such 
]K)litical  ideas,  he  would  have  played  a  very  pretty 
part  in  the  comedy  of  the  regency  ! 

After  having  published  The  riurality  of  Worlds, 
he  entered,  armed  from  head  to  foot,  into  the  petty 
war  of  the  ancients  and  moderns  ;  he  made  liimself 
the  champion  of  the  moderns ;  therefore  Boilean, 
who  did  not  like  satire  in.  otlier  lumds  than  his  own, 
declared  himself  the  eternal  enemy  of  Fontenelle ; 
and  if  this  name  is  not  found  at  the  present  day 
between  Cassau'ne  and  CoUetet,  it  is  because  Boileau 
at  that  time  wrote  no  more  satires.  He  did  not 
the  less  revenge  himself ;  as  soon  as  Fontenelle  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  Academy,  the  old  satirist  took 
tiie  field  against  him.  Everywhere,  after  the  visit  of 
Fontenelle,  followed  that  of  Boileau.  Fontenelle  was 
refused  admittance  five  times.  Like  a  man  of  spirit, 
he  wrote  a  Discourse  on  Patience,  which  he  sent  to 
the  Academy.  A  poet  who  took  his  own  part  so 
well  was  not  long  refused  admittance  ;  the  patient 
man  was  received  a  short  time  afterward. 

Meanwhile,  his  fame  was  spread  with  greater  and 
greater  success  throughout  the  court,  the  city,  and  the 
provinces.  Every  provincial  who  came  to  Paris  with 
a  little  grammar  in  his  head,  was,  above  all  things, 
desirous  of  seeing  1\I.  de    Fontenelle;  he  returned, 


CnAJJACTEE    BY    LA    RRUTERE.  01 

Baving  on  all  occasions,  "I  have  seen  the  opera  and 
]\I.  de  Fontenelle!  M.  de  Fontenelle !  What  a 
genins!  He  remarked,  not  over  four  years  ago,  to 
the  ducliess  of  Maine,  who  asked  what  difference 
there  was  between  herself  and  a  watch, '  Madame  the 
dnchess,  the  M'atch  marks  the  lionrs  and  j'onr  liigh- 
iiess  makes  us  forget  them.'  And  then  hist  year  he 
said  to  Madame  de  Tencin,  '  My  dear  lady,  your  in- 
tellect is  like  a  watch ;  it  is  always  advancing.' " 
Thei'e  was,  therefore,  an  unlimited  demand  fur  Fon- 
tenelle, so  that  he  rarely  dined  at  home  one  day  in 
the  week.  lie  paid  for  his  welcome  by  a  bon-mot 
prepared  in  advance.  The  same  one  often  did  him 
good  service  twenty  times.  Heaven  knows  how  many 
grimaces  he  made  before  and  after  victory  !  Xever 
did  woman,  coquette,  or  actress,  make  more  ado  about 
saving,  "  I  love  you."  La  Bruvci'e,  who  could  see 
clear  in  daylight,  in  contradistinction  to  many  wits 
of  the  day,  thus  sketches  Fontenelle,  "  Cydias  is  a  wit ; 
it  is  his  profession.  \\\  society,  after  having  bent  liis 
forehead,  pulled  down  his  rutfle,  extended  his  hand, 
and  opened  his  fingers,  he  gravely  sets  forth  his 
fjuintessenced  thoughts  and  sophistical  i-easonings. 
A  feeble  discourser,  he  has  no  sooner  set  foot  in  a 
company,  than  he  seeks  some  women  among  whom  ho 
can  insinuate  himself,  and  make  a  parade  of  his  wit 
or  his  j)hiloso[)hy  ;  for  whether  he  speaks  or  writes, 
he  should  not  be  supposed  to  have  in  viev/  either  the 
true -or  the  false,  the  jeasonable  or  the  i-idiculous — 
lie  solely  avcjids  expressing  himself  like  other  people, 
Cydias  thinks  himself  ecjual  to  Lucian  or  Seneca  ;  but 
he  is  (jiily  a  coni]jound  of  tlic  ])edant  and  the  pi'ccisian, 
made  up  bjr  the  admiral ii iii  of  cit,-;  and  provincials." 


02  FONTENF.LLE. 

To  (liscourat;c  criticism,  Fontcncllo  li;ul  declai'ed 
tliat  he  would  bniu  inircad  all  the  joui-nals  which 
commented  upon  his  woi-Us.  As  his  works  were  very 
M'idelv  circulated,  as  ho  hail  a  tootiiiiz;  evervwhere,  as 
he  knew  how  to  give  a  helping  hand  at  tlie  I'ight  time, 
no  one  was  severe  upon  him  exce])t  Ilonsseau  and  La 
Bruyere.  Everyl)ody  sang  Ids  praises :  the  Mercure 
(Jalant  and  the  Gazette  de  France^  llayle  and  Vol- 
taire, the  blue  stockings  of  Peru  and  the  poets  of 
iStockliolm,  in  prose  and  verse — even  in  ]-,atin  verses. 
And  such  verses,  and  such  praises!  He  is  Plato, 
Orpheus,  more  than  a  man,  a  denn'god !  Listen  to 
Crcbillon : 

"  Poet  whom  old  Greece 
Would,  e'en  from  infant  days,  have  set  'mid  demigods." 

IJear,  too,  M.  delsivernois:  "All  the  temples  of  genius 
celebrate  his  worship.  Like  those  master-works  of 
architecture  which  nnite  the  riches  of  all  the  orders, 
lie  has  gathered  the  palms  of  the  muverse."  You 
see  that  M.  de  Kivernois  was  not  forced  to  anj'  ex- 
pression for  the  sake  of  rhyme.  It  is  not  the  lan- 
gnage  of  the  gods ;  but  Fontenelle  would  not  have 
disdained  such  prose.  Nor  the  f (allowing :  "  The  books 
of  M.  de  Fontenelle  ni"e  enamelled  Nvitli  beautiful 
thoughts.  It  is  bettei'  than  a  meadow ;  they  pre- 
sent the  majestic  spectacle  of  the  firmament,  whose 
azui'o  is  afjrceahly  relieved  by  the  sparkling  gold  of 
the  stars."  So  said  the  abbe  Trublet.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  agreeably  ?  Fontenelle  would  have 
found  it  to  his  taste.  Everybody,  even  to  Yoltaii-e, 
who  said : — 

"  liim  the  fool  duth  iiiiderstaud,  the  wise  to  jwai.se  unite.'' 


LETTEES    OF    GALLANTRY.  63 

But  Voltaire,  doubtless  to  imitate  Fontanelle,  ended 
Iiis  tirade  with  a  point : — 

"  Born  with  gifts  the  liigliest,  lie  an  opera  doth  indite." 

Even  to  Kigand,  who  has  left  us  a  portrait  of  Fonte- 
nelle,  enlivened  with  an  indescribably  charming  smile, 
which  is  almost  like  the  smile  of  a  woman  who  has 
loved. 

What  a  sad  concert  of  incredible  laudations ! 
Wherefore  tiiis  bad  verse  and  bad  prose  ?  Why 
these  temples,  this  incense,  this  worship,  which  is  a 
profanation  ofpoesv?  Let  us  look  a  little  into  Fon- 
tenelle's  claims.  Is  not  his  best  that  of  having  lived 
a  century  ?  Posterity  raav  do  what  it  will :  a  poet 
who  lives  a  century  will  make  his  way  better  than 
most  others.  He  made  his  debut  in  the  Mei^cure,  by 
the  letters  of  gallantry  of  the  Chevalier  d'lier — ,  in 
which  ho  has  aimed  at  displaying  all  his  powers.  I 
therefore  I'cad  over  again  the  letter  to  Mademohelle 
de  F!,  on  a  white  hair  which  she  had.  After  many 
fatiguing  involutions,  lie  exclaims,  "Could  you  not. 
Mademoiselle,  be  a  little  under  the  intluences  of  the 
tender  passion,  without  immediately  growing  pale? 
Love  was  designed  to  put  a  new  brilliancy  in  your  eyes, 
to  paint  your  cheeks  a  fresh  carnation,  but  not  to  scat- 
ter snows  upon  your  head.  His  duty  is  to  adorn  you  ! 
It  would  be  a  great  pity  if  he  should  make  you  grow 
old  who  rejuvenates  the  whole  world.  Pluck  out 
from  your  locks  this  white  hair,  and  at  the  same  time 
]»luck  out  its  root  which  is  in  your  heart."  I  have 
taken  the  best  paragraph.  All  the  letters  are  in  this 
])rovincial  and  formal  style. 

Almost   at  the   same  time,  Fontenelle  wrote  the 


G4:  FONTENKl.l.K. 

Plurality  of  Worlds,  taking  Descartes,  in  liis  most 
cliinierical  fancies,  as  a  guide.  It  is  here  that  he 
shines  in  full  force,  lie  wished  to  give  the  fruit 
inuler  the  llower,  philosophy  inuhn-  the  foi-iu  of 
the  graces,  truth  under  the  llattci'ing  veil  of  false- 
liood.  "I  am  the  first,"  said  he  unceremoniously — 
He  counted  without  La  Fontaine — but  could  he,  who 
wrote  that"  the  simple  is  a  shade  of  the  vulgar,'' 
think  of  La  Fontaine?  As  for  the  Plurality  of 
AVorlds,  the  only  hook  of  Fontenelle's  which  has 
c  )me  down  to  us,  I  reproduce  the  verdict  of  Yol- 
taire.  "  This  book,  founded  upon  chimeras  can  never 
become  classic.  I'hilosophy  is  above  all  things  the 
truth  ;  the  truth  should  not  hide  itself  under  false 
ornaments." 

AVe  can  find  in  the  author  of  the  Plurality  of 
AVorlds  a  cei-tain  boldness,  brilliant  rhetoric,  grace, 
if  not  naturalness,  common  sense  if  not  profundity. 
But  it  nnist  be  confessed  that  graceful  phrases  are 
not  the  proper  equipment  for  the  discovery  of  new 
worlds;  meditation  would  be  a  better  travellinj' 
companion  ;  to  the  meditative  man  the  horizon  ex- 
pands at  every  step.  The  sky  would,  perhaps,  be 
a  little  cloudy,  sometimes  foggy,  but  poetry  is 
often  in  the  cloud,  and  the  sun  which  dissipates  the 
fog  appears  with  greater  splendor ;  while  for  mere 
grace,  the  horizon,  however  beautiful,  is  at  once  re- 
stricted. Thus  we  find  in  the  worlds  of  Fontenelle, 
a  great  mass  of  celestial  matter  in  lohich  the  sun  is 
cramped  tq^-  The  aurora  is  a  grace  lohich  Nature 
gives  us  over  and  above  fall  measure.  Of  tlie  en- 
tire celestial  asseinJjlage  there  has  remained  to  the 
earth   only   the  moon,   ichich   aiypears  to   he  much 


THE    PLURALITY    OV    WORLDS.  65 

attacked  to  it.  All  this  is  very  pretty,  especially  for 
laiii^liing  scholars  learning  geography,  or  for  women 
who  are  examining  the  Chinese  iignres  on  their  fans 
while  listen ino;.  Gracefulness  was  the  flower  of  the 
Muses  a  hniidred  years  ago.  Contemplation,  the 
passion  of  the  poets  of  the  present  day,  was  then, 
according  to  Fontanelle,  only  the  mountain  Avhence 
poetry  takes  its  rise.  This  mountain  has  other 
springs,  if  we  may  believe  Goethe,  Byron,  Hugo, 
and  so  many  otliers  of  our  day,  who  would  have  re- 
vealed a  new  world  to  Fontenelle. 

A  bitter  criticism  on  the  Plurality  of  Worlds  would 
be  to  sav,  that  the  book  is  written  for  the  worst  class 
of  women,  the  blue-stockings.  In  the  time  of  Fon- 
tenelle,  the  marchionesses  of  the  Hotel  Rambouillet 
scattered  themselves  here  and  there  in  the  saloons, 
liaving  always  on  their  lips,  not  a  smile,  but  alas  ! 
Bomc  witticism.  Fontenelle,  who  had  studied  in  this 
school,  Fontenelle,  too  feeble  to  live  with  men,  soon 
])itched  his  tent  by  the  side  of  the  women.  As  he 
liad  no  love,  he  soudit  the  hvnien  of  the  mind; 
lie  united  liiinself  to  the  blue-stockings.  Here  is 
the  secret  of  this  dried-up  heart,  the  secret  of  this 
soulless  mind. 

]]efore  this  connection  with  these  blue-stockings, 
he  was  seized  with  a  great  liking  for  Voltaire,  D'Ur- 
fey,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Scudery ;  he  had  prome- 
naded in  mind  along  tlie  river  of  Tenderness,  with 
the  sliepherdesses  of  Lignon,  writing  in  the  Mer- 
cnre  Gnlant  to  the  first  woman  lie  came  across,  in 
the  style  of  Voitui'e.  This  unfortunate  injetical  dawn 
threw  its  deceptive  rays  over  the  whole  of  his  life; 
he   could    not    avoid    occasional    unlucky   returns   to 

0* 


6()  KONir.NKM.K. 

his  j-oiith.     lie  was  already  far  from  that  period  wlicii 
ho  described  in  the  Mercure  the  empire  of  poetry. 
This  diirression  is  still  of  the  famous  school.     Fou- 
teuelle,  therefore,  commences  in   this   wise:    "This 
empire  is  divided  into  high  and  low  poetry,  like  most 
of  our  provinces.    The  capital  of  this  empire  is  called 
Epic.     AVe  always  find  people  at  its  gate  who  ai-e 
killing  one^aiu)tiier.     On   the  other  liand,  when  we 
])ass  through  Romance,  Avhich  is  the  faubourg  of  the 
Epic,  we  are  always  meeting  people  who  are  in  great 
joy,  and  wlio  are  soon  to  be  married.     Low  poetry 
resembles  very  much  the  low  countries — it  is  full  of 
quagmires:    Burlesque   is    its   capital.      Two    rivers 
v.-ater    the   country ;    one    is    the    Iliver   of  Ilhyme, 
which  takes  its  source  from  the  foot  of  the  mountains 
of  Ilevery.     These  mountains  have  elevated  peaks, 
which  are   called    the   Peaks   of  Sublime  Thought. 
Many  reach  them  hy  supernatural  efforts,  but  an  in- 
finite number  fall  who  are  a  long  time  in  getting  on 
their  leirs  airain.     The  other  river  is  that  of  Ileason. 
These  two  i-ivers  are  sufficiently  remote  from  one  an- 
other.    There   is   but    one    mouth    to    the  Eiver  of 
Rhyme  which  corresponds  to  the  River  of  Reason. 
It  results  from  this  that  many  villages  situated  on 
the  River  of  Rhyme,  as  the  Yirelay,  the  Ballad,  the 
Royal  Ode,  can  have  no  commerce  with  the  River 
of  Reason.     There    is    in    the    country   of  poetry   a 
very  dense  forest  where  the  i-ays  of  the  sun  never 
penetrate  :    it    is   the   forest    of    Balderdash    where 
Reason  loses  itself." 

Did   not  M.  de  Fontenelle  travel  a  little  in  that 
same  fojest ? 

The  History  of  the  Oracles  is  merely  an  agreeable 


HTS   PEOSE.  67 

snmmarj  of  the  immense  work  of  Yan  Dale.  Fon- 
tenelle  received  without  compLaint  the  entire  glory 
due  to  the  learned  foreigner.  The  History  of  the 
Academy  of  Sciences  is  a  brilliant,  varied,  and  lumi- 
nous journal ;  but  in  it,  as  in  everything  else,  M.  Fon- 
tenelle  is  only  half  a  critic  and  half  a  scholar.  This 
history  is  a  journal  and  nothing  more.  Is  it  worth 
while  to  point  out  a  mass  of  wretched  productions 
which  died  in  the  cradle,  as  the  History  of  the  French 
Stage,  the  Parallel  Idiceen  Corncille  and  Bacine, 
where  he  savs  :  "  The  characters  of  Racine  liave  some- 
thiuir  low  about  them  from  being  natural."  The  Dis- 
course  on  Poetry,  which  contains  none ;  On  Hajypi- 
ness — (what  could  this  man,  joyless  and  tearless,  say 
on  this  head  ?)  On  the  Human  Reason,  in  which  he 
coldly  puts  forth  unreasonable  nonsense.  Is  it  M'ortli 
the  trouble  to  bring  to  light  again  those  pastorals  in 
Sunday  clothes,  those  eclogues  which  expand  far  from 
the  sun,  far  from  the  mountains,  far  from  Nature, 
on  a  Gobelin  carpet,  before  a  screen,  under  the  glit- 
ter of  chandeliers;  those  songs  which  ])eople  have 
taken  good  care  not  to  sing,  those  tragedies  in  prose 
and  verse  which  they  have  taken  good  care  not  to 
plav,  those  letters  without  freedom  which  they  have 
taken  good  care  not  to  read  ? 

Fontenelle  has  passed  for  a  poet  full  of  spirit, 
grace,  and  philosophy.  To  this  liis  verses  might  fur- 
nish a  sufficient  answer. 

"Areas  and  Palemon,  both  of  the  same  age — hoth  wcU- 
matclK'd  comj>etitors  tlie  one  for  the  other— both  answering 
one  anotlier  by  siniihir  songs -formed  a  pastor.il  combat:  — 
it  was  not  tlie  contenijitible  glory— either  of  song  or  of  verse 
wliich  excited  their  minds." 


OS  rONTKNKLr.K. 

Such  is  tlio  style  in  wliicli  M.  do  Foiit-cnelle  put 
liis  shepherds  on  tlic  scene.  Not  n  word  of  the  conn- 
trv,  of  the  sky,  or  of  tlie  lU)cks — ;ue  they  on  the 
ine;uK>\v  ov  on  the  road,  in  the  sliade  of  the  beeches 
or  at  the  edge  of  the  spring.  What  niattei' !  M.  de 
Fontcnelle  does  not  descend  to  these  petty  prosaic 
pictures — lie  does  not  take  the  ti-ouhle  to  paint  his 
shephei'ds  for  us;  but  in  return  tlie  ingenious  poet 
does  not  forget  to  inform  us  in  an  adiniral>le  stylo 
that  they  are  hot/i  of  the  same  age.  lie  goes  fni-ther ; 
knowing  eveiy  reader's  forgetfulness  of  nund)ei's, 
he  repeats  thrice,  with  infinite  art,  that  they  are 
two,  neither  more  nor  less.  What  do  you  say  to 
these  v^ell-matclu'd  eninpetitors,  who  form  '^ pCL^tnral 
eomhat  of  hard  knocks,  of  shnilai'  songs,  and  of 
that  conteinj)tMe  gloi'ij,  wliich  did  not  excite  their 
minds  ?  AVell !  Here  is  at  last  a  poet  who  does 
not  talk  like  the  lest.  Do  not  be  astonished  that 
after  similar  masterpieces,  M.  de  Fontenelle  should, 
as  head  of  the  school,  liave  wi-itten  a  discourse  on 
the  Eclogue,  in  which,  among  other  happy  i-emai'ks, 
he  observes  that  Theocritus  is  coarse  and  i-idiculous  ; 
tliat  Virgil,  "too  rustic,"  is  only  a  copyist  of  Theo- 
critus. But  I  am  forgetting  to  tell  you  how  Foute- 
nelle's  shepherds  talk  : 


TiRClS.  Whither  go  yon,  Lycidas  ? 

Lycidas.  I  am  traversing  tho  plain,  and  even  intend  to  monnt 
the  neighboring  hill. 

TiRCis.  The  walk  is  a  long  one. 

Lycidas.  Ah !  if  need  were,  for  the  cause  which  leads  me,  I 
would  go  still  farther. 

Tiucis.  It  is  easy  to  understand  you — always  love  'i 

Lyciuas.   Always.     What  can  we  do  without  love  V 


HIS    PASTORAL. 


09 


TiRcrr-.  Thou  knowest  Lygdamis  ? 

Lycidas.  Who  knows  him  not  ?  'lis  he  vr\io  adores  the 
charms  of  Clymena. 

Tiucis.   Himself. 

Lycidas.  AVliat  a  shepherd  !  He  is  of  a  character  which  would 
have  pleased  me  iu  a  lover  had  I  beeu  a  shepherdess. 

You  think  that  I  have  been  quoting  prose.  It  may 
he  so ;  if,  however,  we  are  to  trust  JM.  de  Fontenelle, 
it  is  an  eclogue  in  verse. 

Tliose  are  not  true  shepherds,  but  stupid  shep- 
herds, such  as  you  will  not  find  in  Champagne.  If 
yon  should  happen,  in  some  little  rural  excursion,  in 
Korniandy,  the  country  of  Fontenelle,  to  meet  on 
the  shady  side  of  the  road  with  some  pensive  young 
she[)herd,  listening  to  the  cooing  of  the  pigeons 
more  than  to  the  cries  of  his  dogs,  make  him  tell 
you  what  is  in  his  heart,  lie  will  not  respond  like 
Lycidas,  W/iat  can  we  do  without  love?  ^Tis  I  loho 
the  charms  of  Clymena  adore j  he  Mill  tell  you 
pretty  much  this:  "I  love  Elizabeth,  a  pretty  girl 
who  is  watering  the  salads  in  her  father's  little  gar- 
den. Do  you  see  her  beautiful  head  rising  just  above 
the  hedcre  ?  Ah  !  I  wish  her  mother's  eyes  were  not 
BO  sharp  !  Cut  she  will  not  prevent  Elizabeth  from 
passing  presently  along  this  road,  for  it  is  the  cross 
road  which  leads  to  their  field.  With  this  fine  sun 
Blie  will  go  and  turn  over  the  hay  with  the  hazel  pitch- 
fork which  I  cut  for  her  in  this  little  wood.  As  she 
passes  I  will  stoj)  her  to  teil  her  that  I  love  her,  and 
slip  into  lier  bosom  a  pretty  bouquet  of  violets  which 
I  have  kissed  a  thousand  times.  At  night  she  will 
put  it  at  the  hea<l  (»f  her  bed  alongside  of  the  Easter 
palm,  and  even  when  asleep  she  will  think  of  me." 


TO  FONTENKLLK, 

No  amorous  slicplierd  sj^eaks  as  badh'  as  those  of 
Fontciielle,  because  lie  is  in  love  and  not  a  scholar. 

There  is  not,  as  you  sec,  a  woi-se  poet  in  Fi'unce 
than  Fontenelle.  As  a  critic  he  does  not  shine  in 
the  first  rank.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  war  on  him 
Avith  other  weapons  than  his  own  woids ;  so  listen 
to  him:  "The  Latins  are  superior  to  the  Greeks, 
Yirgil  to  Homer,  Horace  to  Pindar.  We  only  need 
])atiencc ;  it  is  easy  to  foresee  that  after  a  long  sei'ies 
of  ages  no  one  will  have  any  scruple  about  prefer- 
ring lis  openly  to  the  Greeks  and  Latins.  I  do  not 
think  Theagenes  and  Chariclea,  Clitojthon  and  Leu- 
cvpjye^  can  ever  be  compared  to  Cyrus  and  the  -4s- 
trea.  There  arc  also  new  departments  of  wi-iting, 
such  as  letters  of  gallantry-,  tales,  and  operas,  each 
one  of  which  has  furnished  us  with  an  excellent  au- 
thor, to  whom  antiquity  can  oppose  no  rival,  and 
whom  apparently  posterity  will  not  surpass.  Were 
there  nothing  but  songs,  a  perishable  class  of  writing, 
and  to  which  nnieh  attention  is  not  given,  we  can 
show  a  prodigious  quantity  full  of  animation  and  merit, 
and  I  maintain  that  if  Anacreon  had  read  them,  he 
would  rather  have  sung  them  than  the  greater  part  of 
his  own.  We  sec  at  the  present  day,  by  a  gieat  num- 
ber of  poetical  works,  that  versitication  can  have  as 
much  elevation,  but,  at  the  same  time,  moj-e  regu- 
larity and  exactness  than  it  has  ever  had." 

By  these  few  lines  you  can  judge  of  the  stjde  and 
depth  of  Fontenelle,  such  is  his  serious  style,  his 
severe  reasoning.  It  is  of  a  kind  to  make  one  regi-et 
his  bed-chandjer  style,  and  his  bookish  badinage; 
with  all  these  periods  )-ounded  off  so  pretentiously, 
almost  always  terminating  with  a  bad  metaphor,  or 


AS    A    CKITIC.  71 

a  stroke  of  smartness,  these  points  so  painfully  sharp- 
ened, which  made  Rollin  remark  that  ''  tlio  end  of 
every  paragraph  in  Fontenelle,  is  a  position  which  the 
pei"iods  seem  to  have  been  ordered  to  seize  npon." 

AVhen  Fontenelle  thinks,  lie  is  Pascal  as  a  M'it,  he 
is  La  Ilochefoucanlt  at  Quimper-Corentin,  and  some- 
times even  at  the  chatean  of  La  Palisse.  The  most 
fanatical  disciple  of  Fontenelle,  the  abbe  Trublet,  the 
same  who  coinr>'iled^  and  compiled^  and  compiled^  ac- 
cording to  Voltaire,  this  subaltern  spirit,  as  La  Brujere 
styles  him,  who  was  only  the  register,  or  the  storehouse 
for  the  works  of  others,  has  extracted  from  the  works 
of  Fontenelle  a  laro-e  volume  of  thoughts  under  this 
title:  Tlie  Spirit  of  21.  de  Fontenelle.  The  poor 
abbe,  among  other  fine  things,  has  said  in  the  preface: 
''This  volume  is  almost  double  the  size  of  the  Maxims 
of  Itochefoucault.  It  is  almost  equal  to  that  of  the 
Thoughts  of  Pascal,  and  the  Characters  of  La  Pruy- 
cre :  vet  these  three  works  fused  to2;ether  would  be 
far  from  equalling  it  in  value." 

xSow  what,  then,  will  remain  of  this  man  of  intel- 
lect, who  lived  under  the  sun  without  seeing  the 
sky ;  by  the  side  of  women  without  opening  his 
heart ;  on  the  hill-side  without  plucking  the  ripening 
grape? — of  this  prose  writer  who  lost  eighty  years  in 
bedecking  with  tinsel  the  most  vulgar  truisms ;  in 
cultivating  flowerets  without  perfume;  in  d:izzling 
his  eyes  M'ith  fireworks  of  tiie  kind  which  leave 
only  a  deeper  darkness  when  over ;  iu  weighing, 
as  Voltaire  lias  said,  a  ]>oint  or  an  epigram  iu 
scales  hung  on  spider-webs ;  of  this  poet  without 
K(»ul  and  without  greatness,  as  without  sinipHcity  ; 
who  babbled  only  for  the  ljlue-st<jckings  of  his  lime  ; 


72  FONTENKI.LK. 

Avlio  made  of  the  Ycniis  dc  Mod  ids  n,  puppet  "well 
bedizened  Avith  spangles ;  of  this  thinker  who  said 
almost  nothing;  of  tliis  somewhat  provincial  wit 
whose  best  thing  has  been  long  since  foi'gotten  ;  of 
this  somewhat  Kornian  critic,  wlio  found  Homer 
confused,  Theoci'itus  coarse,  Virgil  too  rustic,  Boilcau 
wanting  in  M-it,  Ilacinc  commonj^lace,  La  Fontaijie 
trivial,  Moliero  in  bad  taste;  who  thought  that  the 
moderns  (thanks,  doubtless,  to  M.  do  Fontanelle) 
surpassed  the  ancients  ?  "What  remains  of  him  ? 
Piron  has  told  us — Piron,  so  despised,  but  who  was 
a  man  of  a  different  stamp.  Hear,  therefore,  Piron  : 
"  Voiture  beirat  Fontenelle;  Fontenelle  be^at  Mont- 
erif ;  and  Montcrif  M'ill  beget  nothing  at  all."  Yes; 
Fontenelle  died  with  Montcrif.  Pray  God  for  the 
repose  of  his  works  !  There  is,  however,  one  work  of 
Fontenelle  M'hich  will  escape  oblivion;  this  woi'k  is  a 
thought — the  thought  of  a  philosopher:  "If  I  had 
my  hands  full  of  truths,  I  should  take  good  care  not 
to  open  them." 

IL's  heart  has  no  hold  on  one,  was  the  remark 
of  the  Marchioness  de  Lambert ;  it  was  the  opinion 
of  everybody,  even  of  the  blue  stockings;  but,  at  a 
later  period,  Condorcet,  through  blind  zeal,  has  been 
led  to  make  the  apology  for  the  heart  of  Fontenelle. 
In  spite  of  this  apology,  it  is  a  matter  of  literaiy 
notoriety,  that  Fontenelle  wanted  a  heart;  it  is  sad 
but  it  must  be  said.  Justice  must  be  done  to  every 
one.  I  do  not  blame  Fontenelle,  but  I  say  to  him 
with  Madame  de  Tencin,  "Ah,  how  I  pity  you,  for  it 
is  not  a  heart  which  you  have  got  there  in  your  breast, 
but  brains  such  as  you  have  in  j-our  head  !  "  Would 
you  have  proof,  listen  to  Colle,  who  relates  in  his 


HIS   ECLOGUE,  73 

journal,  tliat  a  nephew  of  tlie  great  Oorneille,  a  cousin 
of  Fontenelle,  begged  in  vain  at  the  door  of  the 
ahnost  centenary  poet,  wlio  was  heaping  pension  on 
pension,  revenues  on  revenues.  I  i)ass  <  iver  in  silence 
the  too  well-kno^vn  story  of  the  asparagus  and  twenty 
othei-s  as  sad  to  relate;  but  to  editj  you  on  this 
chapter,  listen  to  Fontenelle  himself:  "In  the  age  of 
love  affairs,  my  mistress  quits  me,  and  takes  another 
lover.  I  go  to  her  house  in  a  fury,  and  over^\■]lelm 
her  with  reproaches.  She  listens  to  me,  and  laugh- 
ingly answers  :  '  When  I  took  you,  it  was  pleasure  1 
was  in  search  of;  I  find  more  with  another.' — '  In 
faith,'  said  I,  'you  are  riglit !'"  Hear  him  again: 
"I  never  seriously  liad  the  desire  to  love  or  to  be 
loved  ;"  or  again,  "I  have  never,  (rod  be  thanked," 
(God  l)e  thanked!  —  tliat  name  is  well  placed  there!) 
"felt  either  love  or  the  other  human  passions  ;  but  I 
know  them  all,  and  it  is  from  that  that  I  have  guarded 
against  them."  In  conchision,  yon  already  know  that 
Fontenelle  said  when  dying,  "For  nearly  a  century 
I  have  neither  laughed  nor  cried."  He  had  ended 
by  becoming  accustomed  to  the  table  of  Madame  de 
Tencin,  dining  there  almost  every  day.  He  was  told 
that  she  was  dead;  "Well,"  said  he,  with  his 
ordinarv  serenity,  "I  will  go  and  dine  at  Mada.ne 
Geoffriii's." 

He  ]iassed  his  life  pcaceabl}',  far  from  all  passion, 
ill  the  ti-iiling  endearments,  as  he  called  them,  of 
certain  women  who  had  not  a  great  de.*?,!  to  do  here 
b.'low.  This  man  who  loved  only  hiniii-i-.jf.  nevertheless 
could  not  live  in  solitu<le.  II'^,  never  l:n<:\v  the.  joys 
(>?  liboKy.      He  always  wanted   a  corqilinient.     A 

b\iivii  to  his  vanity,  for  his  vanity  he  nui'!.-  himself  tho 

I- 
i 


74  FONTKNi:i.I-E. 

slave  lo  (lie  ffi-st  comer.  Tlie  roof  \vlii('li  sheltered 
him  ii!  Ihis  wdrhl  was  never  other  *^haii  tlie  roof  of 
iK>S}>ilality;  he  passed  his  days  hei'e  and  there;  with 
Tliomas  C'linuMUe,  with  jM.  Ic  llai^iiais,  at  the  Palais 
Koval,  MJth  ]\[.  d'Anhe  (you  know  him;  that  M. 
d'Aid)e  celebrated  hy  Kiilhieres).  To  make  ameiK.'s, 
he  always  dined  out  with  ]\[adame  de  Teiicin,  with 
]\radame  d'Epinay,  with  Madame  de  Lnnd)ert,  witli 
Madame  d'Argenton,  in  fine,  everywhere  except  at 
home.  This  style  of  living  c<iiild  not  fail  of  being 
economical.  He,  therefore,  although  a  podt  without 
•)atrimony,  died  with  an  income  of  35,000  livres  (ho 
belonged  to  all  the  paying  academies),  withojt  s[»eal<- 
ing  of  75,000  livres,  in  ringing  coins,  which,  whca 
about  eio;htv-seven,  he  had  concealed  in  his  mattuo^^, 
doubtless,  to  re})ose  upon  in  the  other  world.  Let  any 
one  say  now,  that  all  the  poets  are  improvident;  but 
Fontenelle  was  not  a  poet.  TnTow  I  repeat,  that  while 
he  was  thus  hiding  away  hli-  mone}',  his  cousin,  the 
nephew  of  the  great  Coiueiile  —  the  nephew  of  his 
mother  —  was  begging  at  a  neighboring  door!  Be- 
sides, were  there  not  twenty  other  nnf<.)rtu nates  to 
succor  at  that  time  in  the  great  family  of  men  (f 
lettei"s,  whence  lie  had  issued  so  rich  and  glorioui=:? 
Malfilatre  dying  of  hnnger!  And  so  many  otljLi" 
hidden  miseries  which  the  eye  of  charity  always 
discovers ;  so  many  other  sonls  that  were  breaking 
their  wing's  against  the  corners  of  some  confined 
room,  or  the  raft-irs  nf  a  garret!  Oh!  Monsieur  do 
Fontenelle,  you  would  have  been  pardoned  for  much 
prose  and  many  a  verse,  foi-  some  open-handed 
charity!  One  would  not  say,  "He  is  a  bad  poet," 
if  one  could  apply  t(j  you  the  words  of  Scriptu  e: 


HIS   DEATH.  75 

"  He  luitli  been  on  the  earth  like  the  blessed 
dew.* 

He  died  m  the  winter  of  1757,  as  a  tolerably  good 
Christian,  without  fear,  without  regrets,  without  noise, 
and  without  a  shock.  On  seeing  his  hearse  pass, 
riron  exclaimed)  "Tlicre  is  the  first  time  that  M.  de 
Fontenelle  has  left  home  not  to  go  and  dine  in  the 
citv  1"     AVas  not  that  a  worthv  funeral  oration? 

In  order  to  be  just,  and  to  temper  a  little  this 
frank  and  rude  criticism,  I  wish  to  record  here 
another  fr.neral  oration.  The  day  after  Fontenelle's 
death,  nt  ?.  pupper  in  good  society,  a  fine  lady  having 
made  boxni'.  very  delicate  witticism  which  was  not 
understO(xl,  exclaimed,  "Ah,  Fontenelle,  where  arc 
you'i" 


MxilllYAUX. 


The  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centm-ies  are 
coiuKctcd  by  the  war  between  the  ancients  and  the 
niodeiT.!i.  From  1072  to  1725,  there  is  perccptiljle 
not  a  ]iterarj  revohition,  but  a  serions  revolt,  whicli 
Bomowhat  disquieted  those  who  were  accustomed  to 
a  line  style  and  sound  doctrines.  The  entire  history 
of  the  war  between  the  Ancients  and  the  Moderns 
is  well  known ;  but  has  any  one  studied  the  peculiar 
characteristics  of  those  who  had  revolted  against 
the  ancients?  Besides,  beyond  tlie  battle-field 
where  Perrault,  Fontenelle,  La  Motte,  and  Mari- 
vaux,  contended,  others  were  seeking  new  sources  of 
inspiration,  instance  Crebillon  the  tragic,  the  abljc 
Prcvust,  Pii'on  himself,  and  almost  all  of  those  who 
were  good  hands  at  the  pen.  They  already  thought 
there  was  a  revival  of  letters.  A  curious  parallel 
might  be  instituted  between  those  times  and  our 
own.  In  1700,  all  the  authors  were  already  forming 
a  scliool  of  poetry  to  suit  their  ov/n  powers,  as  at  our 
day. 

AVhen  Marivaux  made  his  del)ut,  the  oft-renewed 
war  had  at  last  wearied  the  combatants.     Moreover, 


THE  ANCIEXTS  AXI)  :M0DERNS.  77 

lioileau  %vas  dead ;  La  Motte  no  longer  protested 
against  poetry,  except  l)y  liis  tragedies  in  prose  or  by 
his  odes.  Meanwhile,  the  wits  of  his  time  followed 
Somewhat  the  h.eresies  of  Fontenelle  and  La  Motte. 
Thus  Duch  ;^',  Montesqrjeii,  and  others  less  celebrated, 
lacking  a  feeling  for  poetry,  dec^lared  that  poetry  was 
only  a  scholastic  amnseu)ent.  This  heresy  continued 
through  the  whole  of  the  eighteenth  century.  "It 
is  as  beautiful  as  fine  prose,"  said  Buffon,  at  a  later 
period,  on  hearing  some  verses.  Buftbn  ^yas  right: 
in  the  eighteenth  centiuy,  the  prose  of  Jean  Jacques 
Eousseau  had  dethroned  the  poetry  of  Jeau  Baptiste 
TJoussean. 

Marivaux  imbibed  his  hatred  against  poetry  in  the 
company  of  Fontenelle  and  La  Molte,  who  beheld 
with  s<^>me  hope  anotlier  youthful  mind  ra.shly  venture 
in  sucli  a  contest.  Fontencilie  smiled  in  takhig  up 
arms.  La  ]\It>tte,  always  reasonable,  even  in  his  errors, 
condjated  with  moderation;  ]Marivaux,  younger  and 
m!)re  determinod,  blindly  th'-cw  himself  at  the  on- 
slaught against  Iloiiicr,  whom,  in  derision,  he  styled 
the  dioiih'.  It  must,  however,  be  said,  that,  not  daring 
to  fight  him  face  to  face,  he  commenced  l)y  travesty- 
intr  him.  IIo  did  not  limit  himself  to  this  sacrilegious 
action.  He  ventured  openly  to  condemn  Molicre. 
This  was,  moreover,  the  tactics  of  the  chiefs  of  the 
revoU.  "We  have  already  seen  how  little  Fontenelle 
thought  of  Kacine  ;  La  Motte  by  no  menus  liked  La 
Fontaine:  war  was  waged  in  favor  of  those  moderns 
who  were  'yclej)t  Fi  »ntenelle.  La  M<itte,  and  Mari  vauX; 
but  not  in  favor  of  Moliere,  La  Fontaine,  and  llacine. 
As  is  always  tlie  case,  they  fought  for  themselves 
and  not  for  olhei*8. 


r* 


7S  IMAKlVAlX. 

rVmtonollo,  Lu  Mutte,  and  MtirivaiiJ:,  who,  tiianks 
to  tlioir  paradtKXC)^,  rarlu-r  than  to  their  talent^.,  occu- 
pied a  hiri;e  space  in  the  first  lialf  of  tlie  cigliteenth 
centnrv,  -vvil'  not  ]>(',  fojgotlen  in  literary  history. 
Marivaiix,  tic  lea^^t  of  a  s*.ho]tir  of  the  three,  may 
most  surely  defy  ohlivio]):  in  the  lirst  instance  liy 
liis  talent,  and  in  tiio  ^ecvud  by  liis  style,  or  rather 
l.»y  liis  jnanner  oi  wi'itinir.  Fontenelle,  it  is  tnie, 
may  claim  a  little  of  that  jargon  \vhich  sparkles, 
entices,  and  fatigues.  Like  Mari\'aux,  he  took  the 
most  roundabout  course  uf  saying  what  he  had  to 
say.  In  the  vitiated  style  of  Fontenelle,  however, 
the  lieart  never  utters  a  v,rord.  In  the  prettinesses  of 
Marivanx,  the  heart  utters  tones  which  prove  to  you 
that  Xatin-e  is  still  there.  For  example,  is  it  not  the 
lieart  which  speaks --the  heart  only  — when  Marianne, 
deserted,  sees  a  crowd  of  unknown  persons  pass,  of 
whom  slie  envies  even  the  most  unfortunate.  "Alas," 
exclaims  she  ;  "  some  one  is  expecting  them  !" 

AVit  w^as  sadlv  iniurious  to  both  of  these  men;  it 
limited  their  horizon  ;  it  imprisoned  tliem  in  another 
Hotel  Eandjouillet,  where  all  that  was  true  and 
simple  was  proscribed,  where  grace  was  bedizened 
Avith  finery  too  worldly.  In  a  word,  their  defect  was 
to  have  had  too  much  wit,  or  rather  to  have  loved 
wit  too  much. 

Iilarivaux  was  born  in  1688,  at  Paris,  where  he 
died  at  the  age  of  seventy-five.  He  lived  poor,  and 
did  iTOod.  A  youthful  bejrsrar  held  out  his  hand  to  him 
at  the  comer  of  the  street.  "  Why  do  you  not  work  ?" 
— "Alas,  master,  if  you  f>nly  knew  how  lazy  I  am !" 
— Touched  by  this  frank  a\'owal,  he  gave  the  beggar 
enough  to  enable  him  to  continue  his  mode  of  life, 


ms   MODE   OF   LITE.  79 

saying,  thiit  in  order  to  be  good  enongli,  it  was  need- 
lul  t(  ha  too  good.  This  reminds  me  of  a  happy 
expre^siou  of  Ilelvetins,  one  wliich  honors  the  writer 
as  well  as  the  philosopher.  In  a  discussion,  Marivaux 
became  very  much  heated  against  Helvetius,  from 
wlioni  he  received  a  pension.  Helvetius  did  not 
make  any  defence;  he  contented  himself  with  saying 
after  Marivaux  had  o;one,  "  How  I  should  have 
answered  him,  if  I  was  not  under  obligations  to  him 
for  accepting  my  favors  !" 

Marivaux  passed  his  life  at  the  theatre,  at  the  cafe, 
in  the  world,  always  engrossed  by  romances,  come- 
dies, and  passions.  He  went  from  one  subject  to 
another  with  a  truly  feminine  inconstancy.  He  was 
never  willing  to  finish  his  Marianne^  or  the  Paysan 
Parvenu^  saying  all  that  belonged  to  ancient  history. 
"VVe  are  all  alike ;  the  line  romance,  the  good  comedy 
is  the  romance,  the  comedy  to  be  written.  How 
many  great  poets  are  there  in  imagination,  who  are 
only  blotters  of  paper  when  they  have  pen  in  hand ! 
To  Marivaux,  love  was  like  romance  or  comedy  ;  he 
ha<l  every  day  some  new  fancy;  he  never  went  so 
far  as  to  complete  the  work;  thus,  just  smitten 
with  Mademoiselle  Lecouvreur,  he  fell  in  love  with 
^Mademoiselle  Sylvia,  whom  he  forgot  the  next  day 
f  jr  Mademoiselle  Salle.  I  forgot — he  forgot  it  him- 
self—  Marivaux  married  when  thirtv.  His  wife  was 
the  daughter  of  an  attorney  of  Sens,  who  had  diedj 
leaving  scarcely  any  property.  His  domestic  life 
wa-^  very  calm,  very  still,  occupied  only  by  laborious 
study  and  uiKpiiet  love.  Marivaux  had  nevei-  dis- 
covered tlu-  sc'crt't  of  being  haj)py,  on  account  (»f  his 
deplorable  habit  of  minutely  studying  the  atoms  <»f 


80  MAKIVAUX. 

})assioii.  His  wile  luul  all  the  eiuu-iiis  of  luarl,  of 
siiuplicitv,  ami  ot'grace;  she  loved  him  with  touching 
teiuleniess;  she  was  the  lite,  the  sinile,  tlie  joy  of  his 
house;  he  was  not  I'ieh,  but  she  was  contented  with 
little.  She  soon  presented  him  with  a  daughter, 
Aviio  ought  to  have  made  this  hai)|)y  household  still 
more  gay.  He  had  happiness  within  his  gras]i,  but 
the  ingrate  did  not  ])erceive  it  until  the  death  of  his 
wife,  eiiihteen  months  after  his  inaiTia<>'e.  Dui'in<r 
these  eighteen  months,  he  had  lost  his  time  in  search- 
ing for  the  philos(.»phy  of  happiness.  AVhen  his 
daughter  was  eighteen,  he  i)laced  her  in  a  convent, 
Baying  that  he  could  give  her  no  portion.  Is  not 
lil)erty,  when  one  has  beauty,  a  portion  for  a  queen? 
Mademoiselle  de  Marivaux  did  not  give  her  first 
love  to  God,  but  perhaps  I  will  relate  to  you  some 
day  her  mournful  story. 

Marivaux  was  long  in  reaching  the  Academy,  lie 
deceived  himself,  savs  the  criticism  of  the  time ;  it 
was  to  the  Academy  of  Sciences  that  he  shoukl  have 
gone,  as  the  inventor  of  a  new  idiom,  and  not  to  the 
French  academv,  of  whose  lamjuac-e  he  was  imiorant. 
Marivaux  never  answered  satires  nor  epigrams ;  nnich 
criticised  at  all  times,  he  contented  himself  with 
saying,  like  the  bull  to  the  fly,  "Ah,  friend,  who 
thought  3^ou  were  there  ?" 

After  being  more  than  twenty  times  successful  at 
the  Comedie-Franmise  and  the  Comklie-Italiennr^ 
he  found  himself  as  poor  as  when  he  began.  The 
theatre,  a  century  ago,  was  not  a  gold-nn'ne  for  poets. 
Meanwhile,  old  age  arrived.  AVith  his  habit  of  giving 
with  both  hands,  his  position  dis<piieted  his  friends, 
lie  fell  sick.     Fontenelle,  who,  if  he  had  had  the 


m    ENGLAND.  81 

heart  of  Marivaux,  iiiiglit  have  been  tlie  banker  of 
literature,  one  morning  bronglit  a  hundred  louis  to 
tlie  sick  num.  Marivaux  took  the  sum  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  but  immediately  returned  it  to  Fontenelle. 
"  I  know,"  said  he  to  him,  "  all  tlie  worth  of  your 
friendship  ;  I  respond  to  it  as  I  ought  to,  and  as  you 
deserve;  I  regard  these  hundred  louis  as  received; 
I  have  made  use  of  them,  and  I  return  them  to  you 
witli  thanks." 

Mari\aux  flonrished  like  a  pretty  woman ;  his 
only  good  time  was  the  spring — his  autumn  was 
gloomy,  and  his  winter  sad  and  desolate.  He  was 
forgotten,  in  France;  Grimm  did  not  wait  for  his 
death  to  declare,  that  "the  vigorous  breath  of  philos- 
ophy has  long  since  tossed  over  all  those  slight  rep 
ntations  built  upon  reeds."  England  has  fully  re- 
venged Marivaux  for  this  forgetful  inconstancy  of  the 
Frencli.  Marivaux  was  long  admired  and  taken  as 
a  model  by  the  English.  His  Spectatexir  made  a 
fortime there;  and  his  romances  insj^ired  Richardson 
and  Fielding. 

Voltaire  said  of  Marivaux :  "  He  is  a  man  who 
iniderstauds  all  the  by-paths  of  the  human  heart, 
Imt  does  not  know  the  higliway."  This  happy  ex- 
])ression  is  an  eulogium  of  liigh  value.  Every  one 
can  not  pass  tln-ough  those  by-paths  in  that  wild 
country  where  sovereign  reason  lierself  can  not  })ur- 
pue  a  straight  course.  In  the  school  of  poetry  which 
he  made  to  suit  liimself,  Marivaux  shows  with  how 
nnich  subtlety  he  lias  followed  so  tortuous  a  route. 
"  With  the  comic  writers,  Love,  until  this  tiuu',  h;iR 
heeii  at  ofbls  with  the  cireumstaiu'es  which  surroiiiu' 
him,  and   liiii.sln'S  by  being  lia|))iy  iji  s|»ite  of  his  ii]»- 


82  MARIVAUX. 

])(.TUMitsi.    AVitli  1110  he  \^  at  odds  witli  liiinself  alone, 
and  '.Mills  hv  hoing  lia]»p,v  in  spite  of  himself.     Ho 
will  li'ani  liy   my  pieces  how  to  distrust  more  the 
tricks  whii-li  ho  plays  himself,  than  the  snares  which 
are  set  fur  him  hy  other  hands."     Upon  this  he  was 
accused    <>f  toiichiiiii;  but  one  chord  of  the  heart. 
''  Von  only  know  how  to  contrive  love  surprises." 
lie  replied  immediately,  and  contended  that  no  one 
could  have  greater  variety  than  himself:   "In  my 
pieces  yon  will  find  sometimes  a  love  which  is  un- 
known to  other  parties  —  sometimes  a  love  which 
they  feel   hut  wish   to   conceal   from   each   other ; 
sometimes  a  timid  love  which  does  not  dare  to  de- 
clare itself;  sometimes,  in  fine,  an  uncertain,  and, 
as  it  were,  an  undecided  and  half-developed  love, 
which  they  suspect  without  being  sure  of,  and  of 
which  they  have  a  half-conscions  idea  within  them- 
selves, before  they  allow  it  to  take  its  coui-se.    Where 
in  all  this  is  the  sameness  which  they  so  unweariedly 
charge  me  with?"     AVhatever  lie  may  say,  it  is  al- 
ways a  love  which  hides  itself,  it  is  always  a  sur- 
prise of  love.   These  delicate  touches,  these  exquisite 
turns,  these  imperceptible  shades,  are  somewhat  lost 
in  a  theatre  from  the  spectator's  point  of  view.     At 
the  first  representation,  it  was  with  great  difficulty 
the  public  was  impressed  but  little  by  little,  knowing 
by  liearsay  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talent  in 
these  pretty  pieces,  they  ended  by  understanding 
and  applauding. 

]\[arivaux,  as  original  in  his  life  as  in  his  works, 
liad  his  first  pieces  performed  without  being  willing 
to  l)ecome  known  even  to  the  actors.  A  discreet 
friend  arranged  ovorylhiiig.      As  i'<>v  himself  he  paid 


THE  "  SURPKISE  DE  l'aAIOUE."  83 

for  admission  to  sec  the  representations  like  any 
chance  passer-hv,  allowing  himself  to  become  tired 
without  ceremony,  and  to  say  so  openly.  One  day 
the  celel;rated  Sylvia,  of  the  Comedie-Italienne, 
despairing  of  being  able  to  express  all  the  delicate 
shades  of  her  part  in  the  ''^Surprise  de  VAmour,^'' 
exclaimed  alond  that  she  would  o;ive  anythino;  in  the 
world  to  know  the  author  of  the  piece.  Marivaux's 
airent,  as  discreet  as  he  was,  carried  him  bv  main 
force  to  the  house  of  Mademoiselle  Sylvia.  He  pre- 
sented him  as  a  li'iend,  with  whom  he  was  passing. 
The  actress  was  at  her  toilet.  Marivanx  asked  per- 
mission to  admire  her  at  home  as  he  had  on  the 
stage.  "While  finishing  oif  a  madrigal,  Marivanx 
to(.»k  np  a  pamphlet  lying  open  on  a  table.  "  It  is 
the  ^  Snrprise  de  r Amour,'' ^^  said  Mademoiselle  Syl- 
via—  "it  is  a  charming  play,  but  I  am  provoked 
with  the  author,  who  is  a  vain  man,  and  does  not 
wish  to  let  himself  be  known.  "We  should  perform 
the  piece  a  hundred  times  l)etter  if  he  had  conde- 
scended to  read  it  to  ns  himself."  Marivanx  at  once 
counnenced  reading  Sylvia's  part.  She  listened  to 
liim  like  an  actress,  passionately  fond  of  her  art. 
"You  throw  great  light  upon  it,"  she  exclaimed; 
"  Although  I  have  been  playing  this  comedy  for  two 
yeai"8,  I  have  never  yet  understood  my  part.  You 
are  the  devil  or  the  author."  Mauivaux  did  not  con- 
ceal tlie  fact  any  longer.  "  I  am  very  willing,"  said 
he,  "  to  acknowledge  my  faults ;  but  I  wish  to  tell 
you  youi's  as  well.  You  are  wrong  in  showing  so 
innch  sj>irit  in  your  ])art.  You  Hatter  your  vanity, 
but  you  niiscontrue  tiie  sense.  Actors  must  never 
Hp|>car  to  feel  the  weigh!   «'l'  liiat   wliidi  tiny  say  — 


84r  MAKIVAUX. 

nature  never  studies  before  speakinn^.  You  must 
leave  sonietliini!;  lor  tlie  mind  of  the  spectator. 
"  ]}ut,  good  Heavens,"  said  Mademoiselle  Sylvia, 
"  be  careful  how  you  take  for  granted  the  existence 
of  an  intelligence  in  the  spectator  which  he  does  not 
l)ossess ;  we  shall  do  him  an  honor  dangerous  to  our- 
selves and  little  flattering  to  him,  as  he  will  perceive 
nothing  of  it."  —  "Well,  you  are  doubtless  right: 
continue  to  play  badly  to  be  applauded,  and  witliout 
glorifying  ourselves  therefor,  let  us  both  think  like 
that  orator  who,  seeing  liimself  applauded  by  the 
multitude,  asked  if  he  had  said  anything  foolish." 

In  his  romances,  Marivaux  abandoned  liimself  still 
more  to  all  the  graceful  turns  of  his  crowquill,  saying 
that  he  knew  how  to  distinguisli  between  the  wit 
which  is  only  happy  when  spoken  from  that  which  is 
only  good  when  read.  The  metaphysics  of  the  heart 
are  more  supportable  in  a  romance  than  in  a  comedy. 
Marivaux  was  desirous  that  a  romance  should  make 
•ne  feel  and  think.  He  was  wrong  in  believing  that 
the  reader  could  not  disjjense  with  the  author's  re- 
flections. Are  not  the  lovers  who  talk  the  most  those 
who  understand  one  another  the  least  ? 

Marivaux  liked  but  three  men  in  French  literature. 
The  only  ones  that  he  recognised  were  Montaigne, 
Corneille,  and  Dufresny.  "  Those,"  said  he,  "  owe 
nothing  to  any  one."  It  will  be  noticed  that  origin- 
ality, before  all  things,  was  his  touchstone.  "I  like 
better  to  be  humbly  seated  on  the  hindmost  bench  of 
the  small  company  of  original  authors,  than  to  be 
ostentatiously  jilaced  in  the  front  row  of  the  great 
tribe  of  literary  apes."  lie  has  been  comj^ared  with 
Dufresny,  l)ut  Dufresny  is  superior  to  him.  Dufresny'» 


niS  FIRST  LOVE.  85 

ori'nimlitv  is  iu  his  ideas,  that  of  Marivaux,  who  has 
but  few  ideas,  is  only  in  the  manner  of  saying  what 
he  thinks  ;  Dufresny  is  natural  in  his  wit,  Marivanx 
is  frequently  only  affected. 

A  horticulturist  of  the  time  one  day  made  a  criti- 
cism on  Fontenelle,  by  giving  the  name  of  this  cele- 
brated poet  to  the  variegated  ranunculus.  In  truth 
the  phrases  of  Fontenelle  are  overloaded  with  epi- 
grams, concetti^  and  madrigals.  As  for  Marivaux,  if 
it  was  needful  for  me  to  criticise  his  w^orks,  should  I 
not  succeed  in  so  doing  by  relating  this  little  story  ? 

At  twenty,  Marivaux  was  violently  smitten  by  a 
young  girl  of  a  citizen  family.  She  was  beautiful  from 
her  grace,  her  smile,  and  her  youth.  She  had  the 
beauty  of  the  devil  in  all  its  splendor.  Although  she 
was  not  yet  twenty,  she  already  knew  all  tlie  tricks 
of  coquetry.  However,  as  youth  has  numerous  priv- 
ileges, this  young  girl  was  sometimes  naive  and 
simple  even  in  her  studied  graces.  More  and  more 
enamored,  Marivaux  asked  her  hand.  As  she  was 
twenty,  and  Marivaux  was  gallantly  equipped,  she 
gave  her  word,  thinking  she  gave  her  heart.  On  the 
eve  of  the  marriage,  Marivaux  visited  his  betrothed 
to  admire  once  mure  her  beautiful  face.  She  was 
alone  in  her  room.  He  entered  on  tiptoe  to  surprise 
her  l)y  a  kiss ;  but  scarce  had  he  entered,  when  he 
forgot  this  love  surjyrise.  The  fair  one  was  gravely 
occupied  in  studying  tlie  play  of  her  countenance  — 
she  inclined  Iier  head,  she  raised  her  eyes,  she  smiled 
or  sighed  —  "she  assumed  all  the  attitudes  of  the 
three  rrraces."  Never  had  coquette  sought  a  better 
]essr>n  fi-(»m  her  mirror.  Offended  by  all  lier  tricks, 
Marivanx  took  ni>his  h;d,  and  went  olF  without  say- 

S 


SQ  MARIVAUX. 

lug  a  word,  vos^)lvc(l  never  to  marry  the  coquette 
Had   ho  not,  liowever,  seen  tlie  living  and  faitlilhl 
iniaii'e  of  liis  Muse? 

]\[arivaiix,  in  si)ite  of  liis  goodness,  had  few  friends. 
Intercourse  with  him  was  as  thorny  a  matter  as  with 
a  co(|uette.  lie  saw  nudice  in  the  simplest  phrases. 
You  see  where  his  mournful  habit  of  haviiii;-  a  desinu 
in  ever}^  step  and  every  word  had  conducted  him. 
AVhat  may  appear  strange  is,  that  he  thought  him- 
self the  most  simple,  if  not  the  most  natural  man  in 
the  world  ;  he  spoke  as  Jie  wrote,  and,  in  fine, 
inuigined  that  he  wrote  as  men  speak  when  they 
know  how  to  speak.  He  thought  himself  so  far  from 
all  artifice,  that  he  could  not  pardon  others  for  not 
beino-  natural.  A  man  had  written  to  him  in  his  own 
style.  "There,"  said  he,  "is  a  charming  unstudied 
man !" — He  went  to  see  him;  he  was  asked  to  wait; 
he  perceived^  by  chance,  on  this  man's  desk  the 
rough  draft  of  the  letter  which  had  enticed  him,  and 
which  he  thought  had  been  written  as  fast  as  pen 
could  move. — ''These  rough  drafts,"  said  he,  "d^ 
him  great  injury.  He  may  henceforward  nuikc 
minutes  of  his  letters  for  whom  he  pleases,  hut  he 
shall  not  receive  any  more  of  mine." — He  w^ent  off, 
and  never  returned. 

At  the  age  when  love  gathers  its  second  harvest, 
he  consoled  himself  for  the  sorrows  of  life  with  a  de- 
voted woman,  who  resigned  herself  with  a  good  gi-ace 
to  the  part  of  nurse.  He  died  as  a  Ciiristian  philoso- 
pher, ridiculing  the  free-thinkers  of  the  day.  "They 
are  doing  their  best  to  stultify  themselves  ahout  the 
other  woi'ld  ;  they  will  end  by  being  saved  in  spite 
of   themselves." — D'Alendjert    sadly    remarks  —  for 


Sl'IKIT    OF    MARIVACX.  87 

tjis  remark  dates  from  liis  old  age,  that  Marivanx,  un- 
like tlie  false  sages,  did  not  take  old  age  for  the  age  of 
reason.  ]le  felt  tliat  old  age  "was  little  more  than  the 
prelude  of  death.  "It  is,"  said  he,  "a  war  in  which 
one  is  vanqnishcd  on  every  field  of  battle.'- — D'Alem- 
bert,  l)efore  the  whole  Academy,  thns  tenninated  the 
eulogy  of  INFarivaiix :  "lie  "was  happy  enough  to  find 
an  ohject  of  attachment^  who,  without  having  the 
vivacities  of  love,  filled  his  latter  years  with  happi- 
ness and  peace.  It  is  above  all  when  the  age  of  the 
passions  lias  terminated  for  ns,  that  we  have  need  of 
the  society  of  a  sweet  and  complaisant  woman  who 
partakes  our  sorrows,  calms  or  tempers  om*  pains,  who 
bears  with  our  fanlts.  Happy  he  who  can  find  such 
a  friend ;  more  happy  he  who  can  preserve  her,  and 
has  wot  the  misfortune  to  survive  her !" — D'Alembert 
had  just  V^'A.  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse. 

Marivaux  died  at  the  same  time  as  Louis  Kacine. 
Dachaumont  delivered  the  following  fimeral  oration 
u])on  tlie  latter :  "  We  have  lost  M.  Louis  Racine, 
who  had  long  been  brutalized  by  wine  and  devotion." 
— As  a  funeral  oration  for  Marivaux,  a  friend  pub- 
lished a  volume  under  the  title  of  "Spirit  of  M.  de 
Marivaux."  This  volume  is  curious  to  run  over, 
fi'om  the  ])reface  to  the  approval  of  the  censor,  which 
is  in  the  style  of  Marivaux  :  "  I  have  read  by  order, 
a  manuscri})t,  having  for  title  '■The  Spirit  of  3fari- 
vaux.''  I  liave  thought  that  I  had  found  therein  the 
fineness  of  tlionght  and  delicacy  of  expression  wliich 
were  peculiar  to  this  author,  and  T  consider  that  its 
]iublioation  may  be  permitted."  Does  not  this  fin:0 
liappy  ('.\]>rcssioii  complete  the  jjortrait  of  tins  chami- 
ing  and  strange  man.     He  was  asked,    "AVliat  ia 


88  MAIIIVAUX. 

tliesoul?" — '"You  must  usk  FontciicUe,"  answered 
he;  but  iinmediately  cuntinueil,  "He  luis  too  much 
seujte  to  know  niiythiuiL!:  more  about  it  than  I  do."— 
Mahibrauche  bad  endt'd  l)_y  sayiujji;  ])retty  mucb  the 
same  thing,  weary  of  liaviug  walked  all  liis  life  upon 
the  edge  of  the  abyss  of  ])hiloS()i)hy.  But  has  not 
this  expression  of  Marivaux's,  wit  beyond  the  1>uunds 
of  wit^  It  was  a  fault  into  which  he  alwavs  fell. 
He  has  said  that  a  beautiful  woman  sliould  conceal 
the  half  of  her  beauty.  Why  did  ho  not  conceal  the 
half  of  his  wit? 


r  1 E  O  K . 


The  being,  Avliom  I  am  about  to  revive,  is  not  a 
niincinrr  Muse  lanicuidlv  stretched  on  a  sola  in  a  per- 
fniued  boudoir,  whose  window  is  never  opened  to 
tlie  snn,  to  the  morning  breezes,  to  the  mm-murs  of 
Nature.  Xo  :  this  is  not  a  little  nuirchioness  who 
prattles  affectedly  with  an  abbe  or  guardsman,  who 
loses  her  grace  from  excess  of  grace,  her  heart  from 
excess  of  wit,  her  soul  God  knows  how  !  It  is  a  tnie 
Burgundian  ]\[use,  a  buxom  girl,  simple  and  without 
art,  who  laughs  innnoderately,  Init  does  not  know 
li(»w  to  smile,  who  has  her  heart  in  her  hand,  and  a 
retort  on  her  lips  when  the  glass  is  not  there,  for  she 
is  somewliat  fond  of  the  pot-house.  She  was  not 
brouglit  up  in  a  convent;  she  is  a  vagabond  Muse, 
who  has  thrown  too  soon  her  purity  to  the  winds. 
She  passed  lier  youth  like  a  wanton  girl,  singing  and 
diffusing  gayety  over  the  strolling  theatres,  and 
sometimes  carrying  intoxication  and  folly  to  the  ex- 
tent of  profjmiug  love,  that  smile  of  Heaven  moist- 
ened with  angel's  tears,  in  a  song  miwortliy  of  a 
poet,  UMwiM-thy  of  a  man,  unworthy  of  a  tipsy  I>nr- 
gnndian.     Have  patience !     On  the  decline  of  this 

7* 


jO  I'IRON. 

youtli,  lusty  luul  cxiil)erant,  and  ^towii  wild  as  tlic 
iv>rost  of  evil  passion^!,  all  this  deviltry  will  be  sobered 
down,  the  wild  gayety  will  become  gentle  and  love- 
able,  lier  flowing  locks  will  be  tied  up  again,  her  dress 
lengthened.     !She  is  always  the  same  pretty  girl,  and 
in  good  humor,  more  than  ever  fond  of  a  joke ;  but 
the  scene  has  changed.     Farewell  Tabarin,  all  hail 
]\[olicre !     It  is  no  longei-  IIarle(]uin,  it  is  the  Metro- 
mania.     Poetry  has  ibrgivtu  her,  but  Heaven  has 
been  outraged  —  it  needs  an  expiation,  it  needs  many 
tears  to  blot  out  that  cursed  and  fatal  ink  which  has 
i>erved    for  this  masterpiece  of  profanation  —  it  rc- 
tjnires  many  a  prayer  to  drown  the  echo  of  this  hor- 
rible song.     Patience  !  behold  the  devil  grown  old  : 
this  Muse,  which  sung  so  wickedly  in  its  youth,  is 
soon  about   to   expire  singing  psalms.     St.  Augus- 
tine who  had  the  science  of  the  heart,  has  said  in 
his  wisdom  :  "  The  heart  comes  to  us  from  God^  the 
heart  returns  to  GodP     But  if  God  has  pardoned 
the  repentant  Piron,  the  French  Academy  has  not 
yet  pardoned  him  —  not  entirely  —  for  that  song. 

Thus,  before  we  come  to  the  delicate  pastels  of 
Delatour,  I  would  study  a  bold  portrait  by  Kegault. 
Piron  lived  outside  of  that  pretty  bantering  world 
which  played  with  roses  and  slept  in  silk.  If  the 
abbes  and  the  marquises  met  the  Burgundian  poet,  it 
was  rarely  but  at  fhe  theatre  or  the  Cafe  Procope  — 
seldom  or  never  in  the  saloons.  Piron  was  poor; 
besides  he  had  his  wit  against  him.  People  fled 
from  his  jokes  as  fast  as  their  legs  could  carry  them, 
almost  always  with  a  limp. 

In  the  seventeenth  century,  there  lived  at  Dijon, 
m  long  the  officials,  an  apothecary  who  had  his  shop 


HOMKE    AND    ACHILLES.  91 

always  full  of  wit,  spirit,  and  gayety.  Did  any  one 
ask  for  ptisana,  he  gave  liiin  a  drinking  song;  did 
they  want  some  physic,  he  offered  them  an  harangue 
in  Burgundian  patois.  Thus  did  this  new-fashioned 
apotjiocary  cure  all  his  patients  so  well  that  he 
died  poor,  leaving  nothing  to  his  descendants  hut 
an  edityiug  coll-^c  lion  of  poems,  songs,  and  Christ- 
mas carols.  Thii.  was  all  the  inheritance  of  Alexis 
Piron. 

Alexis  Piron,  son  of  Aimc  Piron,  came  into  the 
v/orld  in  the  summer  of  1689,  in  the  same  season 
with  Montesquieu,  a  little  before  Yoltaire.  His 
fatlier,  wlio  celebratcil  all  memor?.ble  events,  took 
care  not  to  pass  this  over  in  silence.  Piron  was  cele- 
brated in  song  at  hi^:  birth,  like  tlie  son  of  a  king. 
It  was  a  good  omen.  At  twelve,  Pii'on,  already  re- 
sponded to  the  song,  he  passed  all  his  leisure  hours 
in  planning,  scanning,  stringing  rhymes,  as  he  has  said, 
out  of  French  syllables.  One  of  his  comrades  who  was 
somewhat  his  elder,  being  enrolled  in  the  dragoons, 
said  to  him  on  the  day  of  departure  :  "  I  shall  return 
Achilles." — "You  will  find  me  Homer,"  answered 
Piron.  At  a  later  period,  on  recalling  the  incident, 
the  poet,  who  had  become  blind,  exclaimed  :  "Poor 
Achilles  Avould  have  found  me  blind  like  Homer,  if 
he  liad  not  died  at  the  Invalides."  His  studies  were 
severe.  Py  degrees  the  desire  for  rhyming  became 
extinct  in  his  young  imagination.  At  sixteen  he 
laughed  at  A]k)11o  and  the  Muses,  like  a  youth  who 
has  already  lost  tliat  precious  candor  which  is  needed 
fur  love  and  ])oetry.  On  leaving  school  lie  betook 
himself  to  the  study  of  the  law,  but  scarce  had  he 
opened    bis  b(j(jks  when  the  Muse  of  i)leasure  and 


QO. 


PIllOiV. 


M'ild  i;:iyety  distracted  liis  mind,  God  keep  y<tn 
IVoin  over  knowing  wliat  Avere  the  first  inspirations 
of  this  muse.  There  exists  not  cnonii:;]!  indignation  to 
Avitlier  this  bad  work,  wliicli  pursued  Piroii  to  tlie  torn!; 
like  a  pitiless  Moga?i'a.  Piron  had  just  been  admit- 
ted advocate,  but  how  defend  others  after  that. 
Fearing  the  noise  nuide  about  his  fatal  song,  wliicli 
made  the  magistrates  of  Dijon  frown  somewhat, 
he  exiled  himself  in  the  train  of  a  financier  on  his 
travels.  This  man  had  olTered  him  two  hundred 
liATCS  a  year  to  copy  verses.  "  I  am  well  content  if 
the  verses  are  good." — •'  If  the  verses  are  good,"  ex- 
claimed the  financier.  "  Good  indeed  !  there  is  no 
donbt  of  it,  for  they  are  my  own,"  Piron  resigned 
him>;clf.  From  the  very  first,  things  went  on  badly. 
"You  did  not  tell  me,  monsieur,  w- hat  was  the  length 
of  yonr  verses.  I  have  never  seen  snch  long  ones." 
—  "You  are  a  pedant."  Piron  contented  himself 
with  here  and  there  resetting  a  verse  on  its  feet  with 
some  little  rhyme  and  reason,  but  without  saying  a 
word  about  it.  Tlie  poetical  financier  did  not  make  any 
complaints.  But  nnluckily  this  old  fool  had  a  female 
second  consin  in  his  train,  who  was  pretty  enough 
and  coquettish  enongh,  and  who  wanted  nothing 
more  than  to  blossom  and  bloom.  Piron  commenced 
with  her  by  a  little  Anacreontic  story.  Much  did 
the  second  consin  care  for  poetry!  Instead  of  slip- 
r)infr  the  love  storv  into  her  bosom  she  threw  it  into 
the  fireplace  of  a  room  at  a  hotel,  and  at  the  time 
of  leaving,  thaidcs  to  an  ofiicions  valet  wdio  did  not 
know  how  to  read,  the  verses  of  the  lover  wei'e 
[•laced  in  the  hands  of  the  financier.  Piron  did  not 
think  it  best  to  go  farther  —  he  gayly  abandoned  for 


A   COinC   TRAGEDY.  03 

time  and  love,  and  again  took  tlie  road  toward  tlie 
paternal  roof,  in  company  with  liis  friend  Sarra/.in, 
who  afterward  became  celebrated  at  the  Theatre 
Frar.yais.  Sarrazin  had  .just  been  playing  comedy 
in  a  strolling  company.  The  jonrney  was  channing. 
If  we  may  believe  Dr.  Procope,  the  poet  and  come- 
dian, iinding  themselves  withont  resources  at  the  inn 
of  a  little  Bnrffnndian  village,  the  two  determined 
to  perform  a  tragedy  in  hve  acts.  Oh,  profanation  ! 
they  mntnally  agreed  on  Andromache.  This  trage- 
dy was  therefore  announced  with  all  the  flourish  of 
trumpets  the  i)lace  afforded.  Tlie  great  day  arrives 
—  the  theatre,  which  is  fitted  up  in  a  ball-room,  is 
filled  in  less  tlian  an  hour.  "  ^Ye  are  playing  fur  great 
stakes."'  said  Piron ;  "  let  us  not  lose  the  G;ame." 
The  curtain  rises,  the  comedian  bows  to  the  audience. 
"Gentlemen,  the  actors  are  dressing  —  in  the  mean- 
time we  will  give  you  a  specimen  of  our  art,  a  little 
comedy  which  we  have  composed."  No  sooner  said 
than  ail  innkeeper's  girl  appeal's,  who  serves  a  most 
copious  su]»per,  our  two  adventurers  take  seats  at  the 
table,  all  the  while  cajoling  the  girl  who  sits  down 
beside  them.  They  commence  an  intenninable  dis- 
cussion on  love  and  women,  on  the  follies  and  vani- 
ties of  the  world,  the  whole  moistened  with  generous 
wine.  At  first  the  Burgundians  knew  not  how  to  take 
all  this  ;  but  soon  seeing  the  merry  rascals  with  so 
good  an  appetite  and  so  thirsty,  they  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  it.  An  Homeric  laugh  rings  through  tlie 
room  —  every  one  becomes  merry.  The  comedian 
and  tlie  poet  redouble  their  spirit  and  sallies,  to  say 
n<»thiiig  of  their  Immpers;  tliere  was  nothing  even 
t<»thcsimj)licity  of  the  maid  Mt'flu'  inn  which  di<l  not 


94  riRON. 

inspire  tlicm.  In  fine  the  trinnipli  was  a  magnificent 
one.  Never  liad  the  liui-gnndians  taken  so  good  a 
lesf^on  in  p]iiloso])hy.  Everybody  departed  contented, 
and  tlie  two  ])]iih)Sophcrr)  passed  tlie  night  under  the 
tal)le  as  a  full  coni])letion  of  the  lectin-e. 

On  his  return  to  Dijon,  rmr  gay  adventurer  aban- 
doned himself  to  pleasure  with  fatal  indolence,  saying 
with  Tibullua:  "It  is  in  this  that  I  am  a  good  chief 
and  a  good  soldier."  In  truth,  he  had  nothing  to  do. 
lie  carelessly  awaited  fortune,  but  fortune  withdi-ew 
further  than  ever  from  the  threshold  of  the  ai)Othei*ary, 
For  the  sake  of  something  to  do,  he  entered  the  office 
of  an  attorney,  whence  lie  levelled  epigrams  against 
all  tlie  people  of  Dijon  who  were  at  all  celebrated. 
His  father  himself  was  not  spared  ;  the  poor  apothe- 
cary was  represented,  spectacles  on  nose,  armed 
from  head  to  foot,  offering  battle  to  Apollo,  who 
turned  his  buck  i^pon  him.  It  was  about  this  time 
that  Piron  joined  the  archers  of  Beanne.  In  the 
eighteenth  century,  tlie  gentlemen  of  Beaune  were 
not  all  men  of  wit.  Piron  found  it  a  barren  soil,  if 
not  for  Bacchus,  at  least  for  Apollo.  It  was  a  fertile 
field  for  epigram ;  but  a  joke  to  l3e  intelligible  to  them, 
must  needs  be  broad.  Piron  dressed  up  a  jackass  as 
an  archer,  and  dragged  him  by  main  force  to  the  ti-ain- 
ing-ground.  "  Here,"  says  he,  "  is  one  of  the  company 
whom  I  met  as  I  came  along." — ^The  animal  began  to 
bray,  and  the  archers  looked  at  one  another  with  vex- 
jition,  like  people  who  have  let  tlieir  secret  be  fonnd 
out.  In  the  evening,  all  the  archers  except  the  jack- 
ass went  to  the  theatre.  As  the  actors  spoke  some- 
•vhat  low,  the  spectators  began  to  cry,  "  Londer, 
louder;  we  can't  hear  I" — "  It  is  not  for  want  of  ears," 


GOES    TO    PARIS.  95 

c'xclaimed  Piron.  The  indignant  audience  threw 
theraselves  on  tlie  poet,  who  made  his  escape  witli  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  the  world,  exclaiming,  "Alone 
I  could  whip  them  all." — In  sober  eanioit,  twenty 
rusty  sw(jrds  were  dra^\'n  upon  him.  The  next  day,  as 
he  returned  to  Dijon,  he  mowed  down  vigorously  all 
the  thistles  which  he  found  along  the  road.  Some  of 
the  people  of  Beaune  meeting  him  slashing  away  in 
tliis  manner,  asked,  "What  are  you  about?" — "Par- 
bleu!  I  am  at  war  with  the  inhabitants  of  Beaune, 
and  am  cutting  off  their  provisions  !" — ^The  war  lasted 
a  long  time ;  it  was  as  celebrated  as  the  battle  of 
Fontenoy.  To  this  da}",  the  gentlemen  of  Beaune  do 
not  relish  pleasantry  on  the  subject. 

11. 

Piron's  gayety,  however,  slipped  away  little  by 
little  with  his  youth.  His  star  had  not,  so  far,  been 
bi'illiant.  Over  thirty,  he  found  himself  wiiliout 
resources,  withrmt  hopes,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 
Indolence,  so  pleasant  and  careless  in  the  spring-time 
of  life,  when  we  saunter  along  on  the  greensvv'ard, 
or  on  the  fallen  rose-leaves,  when  we  can  gather  a 
bonf[net  of  wild  flowers  on  every  path,  when  ]\Iargot 
or  Joan  opportimely  pass  along  the  road  —  indolence 
becomes  a  galling  chain  at  the  harvest-time.  Poor 
Piron  saw  with  vexation  the  ripening  ears  he  could 
not  reap.  lie  began  to  regret  his  wasted  prime,  and 
with  the  noble  ardor  for  labor  which  was  seriously 
enkindled  in  his  soul,  he  set  out  for  Paris,  the  oasis 
of  his  poetic  dreams.  Alas,  he  found  Paris  a  deserti 
"Behold,  then,  my  bark  in  the  midst  of  an  unknown 
sea,  the  s])ort  of  the  winds,  the  waves,  and  the  rocks' 


96  PTRON. 

It  leaked  on  all  sides,  and  I  was  abont  to  sink  whon 
poetry  caine,  whether  for  good  or  ill,  to  my  aid.  It 
vras  my  last  plank;  but  I  did  not  know  what  .Viii<l 
of  plaiik  it  was." — lie  knew  well  that  it  was  a  plank 
of  safety;  but  before  touching  dryland,  the  plank 
floated  far  over  the  agitated  waters. 

Behold  him  at  length  at  Paris  with  no  other  bag- 
o-a'Tc  than  his  wits.  I  forgot  —  he  had  letters  of  reconi- 
mendation  ;  but  these,  he  remarked,  were  not  notes 
payable  at  sight.   Eebnffed  at  the  very  first,  it  was  in 
anc;er    lie  made  a  boniire  of  the  rest.    As  one  of  these 
letters  would  not  l)urn,  he  augured  something  good 
from  it,  and  therefore  took  it  to  its  addi'ess,  that  is  to 
say,  to  the  Chevalier  de  Belle  Isle.     Tlie  chevalier 
was  on  the  look-out  for  copyisis  to  transcribe  his  intei*- 
minable  memoirs.     He  did  not  condescend  to  allow 
Pu-on  to  be  presented  to  him. — "Let  him  present  his 
handwriting  and  not  his  person  to  me." — "He  was 
perniitted,"  says  a  critic,  "thanks  to  his  good  hand, 
to  co])y  this  tiresome  trash,  at  forty  sous  a  day,  in  a 
dilapidated  garret,  having  a  soldier  in  the  French 
Guards  for  a  neighbor.     At  the  end  of  six  months' 
steady  toil,  he  had  not  yet  received  anything  of  his 
moderate  stipend.     He  hit  upon  the  idea  of  writing 
a  petition  in  verse,  and  fastening  it  to  the  collar  of  a 
favorite  dog  of  the  chevalier's.      On  a  second  at- 
tempt, he  was  disdainfully  paid,  M-ithont  their  a]>- 
]»earing  to  suppose  that  the  verses  came  from  him. 
I'here   was   not   a   single   one,   down   even   to   the 
secretary  of  the  chevalier,  who  did  not  look  down 
upon  him;   but  the  poor  poet  was  soon  revenged; 
this  secretary  came  one  evening,  with  three  or  four 
of  his  friends  to  the  ganet  where  Piron  was  copying, 


AN    AUTHOR    OF    A   THOUSAND.  97 

to  read  to  them  a  tragedj'  which  he  had  written, 
Piron  listened  in  liis  corner.  At  the  end  of  the 
piece,  after  considerable  applause  from  three  or  four 
of  his  friends,  Piron  joined  in  the  conversation  with- 
out asking  permission,  and  criticised  all  the  scenes 
like  a  man  of  wit  and  sense.  TJie  author  carried  off 
his  friends,  without  saying  a  word,  hut  soon  returning 
alone  to  the  garret,  offered  his  hand  to  Piron,  and 
said  with  emotion,  "  Monsieur,  I  thank  jou  for 
having  opened  my  ejes ;  after  what  you  said,  I  liad 
hut  one  course  to  pursue ;  that  was  to  burn  my  trag- 
edy. I  come  to  you  with  clean  hands." — There  are 
still  at  the  present  day  critics  of  good  sense  and  good 
faith ;  but  are  there  still  authors  who  throw  their 
pieces  in  the  fire  ? 

This  brave  fellow  set  to  work  to  find  a  career  for 
the  talents  of  Piron.  Le  Sage  and  Fuselier  had  lost 
their  brilliancy  at  the  Opera  Comique  •  their  genius 
began  to  show  the  effects  of  old  age.  People  began 
to  complain  of  always  hearing  the  same  song.  Piron 
appeared  tliere  at  a  fortunate  moment ;  he  seized  with 
a  bold  hand  the  sceptre  of  broad  humor.  His  first 
farces,  however,  were  not  very  happy. — "  At  that 
time,"  said  he,  when  eighty,  after  a  good-natured 
retrospect  of  the  past,  "  I  made  comic  operas  every 
niglit  which  failed  every  day." — A  decree  was  mean- 
wliile  issued  at  the  suit  of  the  Theatre  Franmh, 
wliich  reduced  the  Opera  Cojnique  to  a  single  speak- 
ing actor.  How  was  that  to  be  got  over  pleasantly  ? 
Piron  accom])lished  it  hy  a  master-piece  of  wit, 
satire,  and  phil(jsophy,  of  comic  opera.  I'or  this 
inaster-])iece,  Ilarleipdn  Deucalion^  he  was  paid  six 
hundred  livrcs.     Deucalion,  the  only  mortal  escaped 

D 


0>'^  I'IK'ON. 

from  tlie  Dcliij::o,  was  ,i  capital  character  for  a  piece 
in  whicli  tluM'c  could  be  but  one  speaker.  l*irou  in- 
troduced anions;  his  actors  Punch  and  the  parrot; 
these  could  s])eak  in  spite  of  the  decree,  which  had 
not  thoug'lit  of  them.  The  poet  afterward  puts 
Pyrrha,  Apollo,  Cupid,  the  Muses,  and  Pegasus,  on 
the  stage,  who  ]>lay  their  parts  m'cII,  and  express 
their  thoughts  by  airs,  songs,  and  symbols.  Who 
could  fail  to  recoiirnizc  Pegasus  by  his  asses'  ears, 
and  his  turkeys'  wings?  This  monologue  had  an 
incredible  success ;  it  contained  scenes  of  real  com- 
edy, an  indescribably-strong  flavor  of  the  Bourgeois 
Gentilhomme,  and  the  Medicin  nialgre  lui.  The 
laughers  were  on  the  side  of  Piron  against  the  actors 
of  the  Theatre  Fraoigais,  who  could  not  find  a  bet- 
ter mode  of  revenge  than  by  ordering  a  piece  from 
the  poet.  Crebillon  the  Tragic,  was  their  embassa- 
dor ;  but  success  intoxicates  and  confuses  the  mind ; 
Piron  believino;  himself  called  to  hio;h  dramatic  des- 
tinies,  set  laboriously  to  work  to  produce  a  lachrymose 
comedy,  Les  Fils  Ingrais.  Would  you  believe  it? 
this  counterfeit  gayety,  -which  sticks  so  close  to  trag- 
edy, has  been  bequeathed  to  us  by  Piron,  for  Nivelle 
came  after  Piron. 

The  comedy  had  but  a  partial  success.  Piron  fell 
fi"om  tlie  summit  of  his  illusions,  and  found  himself 
again  in  his  garret,  poor  as  usual.  Poetry  never' 
visit's  poets  in  garrets,  but  in  their  blooming  days  of 
youth.  Kow  Piron  was  thirty-five,  with  no  money 
in  his  pocket,  nor  love  in  his  heart.  Some  small 
change  in  the  one ;  some  loose  amour  in  the  other. 
The  poor  poet  had  always  cause  to  complain  of  for- 
tune and  of  love.     The  one  came  to  him  under  the 


MADEMOISELLE    CHEEE.  99 

disguise  of  alms:  the  other  of  some  actress,  witlioiit 
liearth  or  home,  who  liad  left  her  heart  amid  the 
tinsel  of  the  stage.  Once  oidv  was  Piroii's  heart 
seriously  interested ;  it  was  for  Mademoiselle  Cliere, 
who,  altlioiigh  an  actress,  was  still  a  woman.  Pirou 
sighed  for  six  weeks ;  he  almost  made  an  elegy ; 
he  wrote  a  pretty  epistle ;  the  cruel  one  ended  by 
relenting ;  so  that  at  the  end  of  six  weeks,  the 
happy  hour  struck  for  Piron.  Behold  him  making 
his  wav  with  a  beatinij:;  heart  to  the  dwellincr  of  the 
fair!  lie,  though  so  fond  of  liis  supper,  did  not 
think  of  supper  that  night.  lie  rang,  was  admitted, 
and  usliered  into  a  boudoir  which  dazzled  him. 
Scarce  had  he  entered,  when  the  fair  Chcrc  appeared, 
in  a  charming  deshabille. — "Is  it  you,  Bimbin  ?  I 
did  not  expect  you  so  soon." — "I  know  very  well 
that  it  is  not  yet  eleven ;  but  what  would  you  have 
me  do?  my  legs  would  keep  pace  with  iny  heart. 
Ah,  you  mischievous  girl,  let  me  kiss  those  roguish 
hands  !  But  you  are  uneasy." — "  Yes  ;  the  chevalier 
was  to  come  at  ten  ;  he  sent  me  this  morning  twenty- 
five  louis  ;  he  is  in  a  fair  way  to  ruin  himself  for  me. 
I  begin  to  pity  him.  Xow  he  does  not  like  3-ou  ;  for 
he  knows  I  have  a  weakness  for  versifiers.  If  he 
comes,  talk  to  me  l>eforc  him  of  some  pretended 
mistress  ;  ajipear  to  Iju  indifferent  to  me  ;  he  will  go 
awa}'  contented  without  boring  ns  too  long.  That 
was  a  ring,  was  it  not  ?  It  is  he.  Have  done,  P>im- 
bin,  and  amuse  yourself  with  poking  the  fire." — 
The  chevalier,  who  was  a  Poitevin  gentleman,  soon 
entered,  pii'ouetting,  and  hmnming  an  <)])era-tune.  At 
tlie  sight  of  Piron,  car(;lessly  stretched  on  a  lounge, 
he   frowned   aud   rattled   his    sword. — "  Monsieur," 


100  riRON. 

saiil  lie, getting  excited,  "yon  arc  not  here,  I  imagine, 
for  the  love  of  God  ;  I  am  not  altogether  a  simpleton. 
I  gave  madame  twenty-five  louis  to-day.  Yon  must 
give  me  as  mncli  or  be  off." — "Yon  arc  losing  yonr 
wits!"  exclaimed  the  actress;  "twenty-five  lonis ! 
don't  yon  know  that  he  is  a  poet  'i  "— Piron,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  conld  make  no  answer. — "  The 
fellow  is  very  reasonable,"  said  he  to  himself ;  "  it 
appears  that  here  one  pays  as  he  goes;  as  I  have 
not  a  son,  I  will  be  off."— He  took  np  his  hat  and 
departed. 

Another  time,  Piron  was  almost  in  love  with 
Mademoiselle  Leconvrenr,  bnt  it  was  again  a  failure. 
But  we  at  least  owe  to  it  a  i)rctty  epistle  : 


TO     MADEMOISELLE     LECOUVREUR, 

Who  played  the  part  of  Angelica  in  my  comedy  of  VEcole  des  Peres. 

A  sculptor,  one  of  ancient  date, 

And  the  Coustou  of  his  day, 
A  Venus  made,  of  charms  so  great, 

So  great,  they  led  his  mind  astray. 
"  Venus,"  he  with  fervor  prayed, 

"Thy  glory  only  gave  me  skill ! 
To  my  devotion  lend  thy  aid. 

Breathe  life  here  by  thy  potent  will!  '* 
Venus  to  his  prayer  lent  ear : 

With  life  the  marble  'gan  to  move. 
Before  his  wond'ring  eyes  appear 

An  idol,  not  a  thing  of  love. 
Soon  his  passion  was  returned  ; 

A  thousand  envied  him  his  bliss. 
That  bliss  supreme,  by  genius  earned, 

The  world  is  all  alike  in  this. 
Shepherds  upon  the  trees  inscribe 

The  story  that  I  just  have  told  ; 


EPIGRAMS   ON    VOLTAIRE.  101 

And  let  this  truth  yoor  hearts  imbibe, 
That  love  moves  stone,,  now,  as  of  old. 

*  *  *  -ic  .  * 

Sweet  L«couvreur,  to  this  my  tale 

Let  me  a  new  ailusiiJn  make.  .    '  :  ■    ;  , 

Angelica  's  my  wor"k  of  art, 

And  3'ou  with  life  have  bid  it  move  ; 

My  fable  which  is  true  in  part, 

Would  all  be  true,  would  you  but  love. 

But  the  fair  Lecouvreur  would  not. 

Piron  consoled  himself  for  love  and  fortune  in  the 
company  of  those  joyous  apostles  of  the  gay  story  and 
the  mei'ry  song,  who  founded  that  celebrated  acad- 
emy of  mirth,  the  Cave.  Piron  M'as  by  no  means 
the  worst  boon-companion ;  he  was  wit  personiiied. 
Grimm  has  said  of  him,  "  he  was  a  machine  of  sal- 
lies, points,  and  epigrams."  On  close  examination, 
Ids  jokes  were  seen  to  crowd  together  in  his  head, 
burst  out  like  a  rocket,  and  bolt  out  of  his  mouth  by 
the  dozen.  In  word-cond>ats,  he  was  the  stoutest 
athlete  mIio  ever  existed.  His  repartee  was  always 
more  terrible  than  the  attack.  This  was  wliy  M.  de 
A'oltaire  was  as  afraid  of  Piron  as  of  fire. 

I  shall  pass  over  the  epigrams  of  Piron  on  Voltaire 
iu  .silence ;  Piron  had  the  best  of  it ;  but  I  would  not 
williiijrlv  foi-jj-et  this  little  scene  at  the  chateau  of  tlic 
Marquis  of  Mimcure.  Tlie  marquis  liked  Piron; 
the  marchioness  Yoltaii'e ;  hence  the}""  sometimes 
met  at  tlie  same  door.  One  moi'niug,  Piroii  found 
Voltaire  alone  at  the  fire-place  of  the  saloon, 
fitrctclied  at  his  case  in  a  great  ai'm-chair,  with  letrs 


'5    "  ""■    "^f->^ 


extended  on  each  side,  and  feet  resting  on  the  and- 
irons. I'iroii  bowed  five  or  six  times,  to  indicate 
that   he    wimted    liis    place    bv    the    fii'c ;    A'^oltaire 


102 


riuoN. 


answered  by  a  slii^^ht  nod;   Piron  bravely  seized  an 
arm-cLarr,  and.rel]od;ir  beside  tlic  liearth  ;  Voltaire 
took   out   liis  \VateI^,  'Piron  his   snuff-box  ;    the  one 
took  ^ til c  tov.gs,  the  otlier  snuff ;  the  one  blew  his 
nose/  the    other    sneezed*:    Voltaire,    i-ettinir   tiied, 
be«;an    to  gape   with   all  Ids    nught;    Piron,   elated, 
began  to  laugh  ;  Voltaiic  drew  a  ci'ust  from  his  coat- 
pocket,  and  crunched  it  between  his  teeth  Mitli  an 
incredible  noise  ;  Piron,  without  losing  time,  returned 
to  the  attack  :  he  found  a  flask  of  wine  in  his  pocket, 
and  drank  it  slowly  with  a  most  bacchanalian  smack. 
At  this  M.  de  Voltaire  took  offence.  — "  Monsieur," 
said  he  to  Piron,  in  a  dry  tone,  and  Mith  the  air  of  a 
grand  signor,  "I  understand  raillery  as  Mell  as  an- 
other ;  but  your  pleasantry,  if  it  is  such,  passes  the 
limits." — "  Monsieur,  ir,  is  so  far  from  a  pleasantry, 
that  my  flask  is  empty." — "Monsieur,"  replied  Vol- 
taire, '*  I  have  recently  come  out  of  a  sickness  M'hich 
lias  left  mo  with  a  continual  desire  to  eat,  and  T  eat." 
— "Eat,  Monsieur,  eat,"  said  Piron  ;  "  it  is  perfectly 
right ;  for  my  part,  I  have  come   out  of  Burgundy 
with  a  continual  desire  to  drink,  and  I  drink." 

I  can  not  forget  either  the  joke  Mhich  Voltaire 
took  to  heart  so  long :  it  is  a  part  of  literary  history. 
Voltaii-e  was  reading  Semiramis  to  a  ciicle  of  audi- 
tors, among  whom  was  Piron.  The  tragedy  con- 
tained a  good  many  verses  from  Corneille  and  Ra- 
cine. Every  time  one  came  from  the  lips  of  Vol- 
taire, Pii-on  made  a  very  low  bow  with  the  greatest 
seriousness.  At  last  Voltaire,  out  of  patience  and 
obsei-ving  a  mocking  smile  on  everybody's  lips,  asked 
Piron  the  reason  of  his  bowing.  The  Bnrijundian 
poet  immediately  replied,  without  any  appearance  of 


ONLY    A    rOET.  103 

pi-e;ueditation,  "  Keep  on,  moiisieni-,  don't  mind  me  ; 
it  is  merely  because  it  is  my  practice  to  salute  my 
acquaintances."  Semiramis  was  played  some  time 
after,  with  very  little  success.  Yoltairc,  meeting 
Piron  in  the  lohbv,  asked  him  what  he  thouo-ht  of 
liis  tragedy.  "  I  think  you  would  like  very  well  for 
me  to  have  been  the  author."'  The  charming  part  of 
all  Piron's  repartees  was,  that  he  was  cunning  and 
malicious,  without  appearing  to  be  so. 

At  that  time,  Piron  went  occasionally  into  society, 
dining  here  and  there  at  a  great  mansion,  lie  knew 
very  well  that  it  Avas  his  wit  which  M-as  invited  ;  as 
he  said,  "They  hire  me  on  wages."  lie  went  ever^'- 
where  without  bending  the  knee.  One  dav,  at  the 
liouse  of  some  marquis,  whom  1  have  forgotten,  a 
nt»bleman  made  way  for  him,  to  enter  the  dining- 
room  before  liim.  The  marquis  observing  this  cere- 
monv.  addressed  the  nobleman:  "Oh,  Monsieur  the 
Count,  tloiTt  be  so  ceremonious;  he  is  only  a  poet." 
Piron  repelled  the  insult  like  a  man  of  spirit.  He 
raised  his  head  proudly,  and  went  in  first,  saying, 
'*  Since  our  titles  are  known  I  take  my  rank." 

Piron,  bewildered  by  a  failure  and  a  triumph  to- 
gether, took  it  into  his  head  that  his  forte  was  trage- 
dy. He  conq)leted  Callisthene,  but  Callisthene  fell 
dead  at  once.  Every  poet  has  displayed  some  pe- 
culiar cliaiacteristic  on  the  stage.  Coi-neille,  gi'and- 
cur  and  hci'cjism  ;  Racine,  passion  ;  Crebillon,  terror  ; 
\'<tltaire,  ])hil()Sophy  or  humanity.  Piron  wanted  to 
take  Iiin  ])]ace  in  the  sunshine  of  genius;  he  bi-ought 
•  III  the  stage  the  ijigantic  and  the  strange,  with 
the  idea  that  "the  highest  gift  of  tragedy  is  to  ex- 
cite admiiation."     Thus  in  C'alli.sthcne,  Alexander  is 


1 01  riRON. 

only  a  ciniel  tyrant,  because  a  philosopher  docs  not 
choose  to  adoi'e  him  as  a  god.  Jiysimaclius  fights 
Avith  a  lion;  Leonidas  devotes  himself  to  death,  tluit 
Alexander  may  have  a  crime  the  more  on  his  sdul. 
"To  make  this  piece  succeed,""  Voltaire  said,  hel'oie 
Piron's  epigrams,  "it  would  be  necessary  that  all  the 
spectators  should  be  like  Cato  or  Socrates/'  Here 
Voltaire  is  more  polite.  Callisi/ient',  which  is  a  pro- 
fanation of  liistory,  fell  before  the  good  sense  of 
the  spectators.  Accoi-ding  to  Piron,  the  following 
incident  was  the  true  cause  of  the  failure  of  the  trag- 
edy. The  poignard,  with  which  Callisthcne  was  to 
pierce  liis  bosom,  was  in  sucli  bad  condition  that  the 
liilt,  guard,  and  blade,  all  came  apart,  so  that  the  ac- 
tor received  the  weapon  by  piecemeal  from  the  hands 
of  Lysimachus.  A  general  laugh  arose  at  the  fatal 
moment,  when  the  actor  staljbed  himself,  holding 
the  fragments  o))eid3^  in  his  hand.  "  Everybody 
laughed  but  the  make-believe  dying  man  and  my- 
self. This  was  the  true  poignard  stroke  which  slew 
my  \)00v  .'Callisthhiey  This  is,  however,  a  real  poet's 
reason.* 

Piron  wanted  to  revenge  himself  for  these  two  fail- 
ures by  another  traged3\  He  was  an  obstinate  poet 
who  never  was  willing  to  abandon  his  ground.  He 
composed  Gustave  Wasa,  which  will  keep  its  place 
if  not  on  the  stage,  at  least  in  his  works.  Gustave 
is  the  entire  history  of  the  Swedish  revolutions. 
Kever  before  the  modern  melo-drama  wei-e  so  many 

*  Piron,  who  often  had  to  complain  of  the  actors,  exclaimed  one 
day,  "  Really  those  rascals  there  would  make  the  Scripture  itself  fail 
if  they  played  it,  and  yet  it  is  a  piece  which  has  kept  its  ground  for 
bevcuteeii  hundred  years." 


FERNAND    CORTES.  105 

tragic  incidents  combined  in  one  piece.  "  Among 
so  manv  events,"  says  Piron  in  his  preface,  "  there 
could  not  fail  to  spring  up  a  number  of  those  brilliant 
occurrences  called  by  the  ncologists  dramatic  situa- 
tions, which  arc  always  well  received  on  the  modern 
horizon  of  our  theatres."  In  fact  only  taking  the 
fifth  act  of  Gustave,  you  would  have  enough  to  make 
fifty  tragedies  on  the  old  pattern.  In  this  pell-mell 
of  passions  and  incidents,  in  this  chaos  illumined 
here  and  there  by  ra^s  of  light,  there  are  certainly 
pathetic  scenes,  bursts  of  grandeur,  noble  thoughts, 
fine  verses.  The  inspiration  of  the  great  Corneille 
has,  sometimes,  descended  even  to  Piron. 

Fernand  Cortts  followed  Gustave  Wasa.  This 
heroic  tragedy  was  badly  received.  It  was  g,  bad 
conception  of  Piron  to  throw  the  interest  noleiis  vo- 
hns  upon  the  Spaniai'ds.  Wlij^  make  Montezuma  an 
imbecile  who  kisses  the  hands  which  enchain  him, 
the  f(»ulish  slave  of  his  people  and  his  enemies,  arm- 
ing himself  for  both,  a  lover  paralyzed  by  an  Elvira 
who  despises  him,  and  whose  ej'es — 

"  Like  to  proud  conquerors,  disdain  their  conquest !  " 

For  Piron  Mexico  was  merely  the  pi-omised  land 
of  the  Spaniards.  While  awaiting  these  glorious 
missionaries  this  beautiful  country  was  only  a  poor 
corner  of  the  world,  getting  along  as  it  could,  with- 
out God,  without  laws,  without  arts.  Hero,  how- 
ever, is  a  terrible  contradiction.  Do  you  know  why 
this  mes.siali,  Fernand  Cortes,  came  ?  For  the  sake 
of  the  fair  eves  of  Elvira.  Instead  of  a  messiah,  we 
have  only  a  knight-errant,  an  adventurous  ])aladin, 
who  sets  out  In  di.'-covcr  a  wnrld    f<>r  tin;  honor  of  his 


lOG  riRON. 

lady,  M"lio  fiijjlits  as  a  liero  out  of  siniplo  f::all!intiy. 
I  am  well  pleased  that  love  should  scatter  his  tluwera 
through  a  traj^edy,  but  I  do  not  wish  tlicni  to  buiy 
up  its  heroes. 

111. 

The  Cafe  Procope  during  the  last  century  was,  as 
you  know,  the  best  literaiy  gazette  in  Paris.  The 
contributors  were  Desfontaines,  Frcron,  Duclos,  Carle, 
Yanloo,  Marivaux,  Boucher,  Ilanieau,  Crebillon,  La 
Tour,  Piron.  During  a  long  period,  the  latter  was 
chief  editor.  The  strife  was,  who  should  have  a 
corner  of  liis  table,  a  spaik  of  his  wit.  Picture  to 
yourself  a  modern  Hercules,  a  head  covered  with 
thick  locks,  a  half-closed  eye,  a  benign  countenance, 
a  mouth  with  the  corners  satirically  turned  up,  a 
tolerabl3'-expensive  dress  (Piron  piqued  himself  a  lit- 
tle on  his  elegance,  and  was  at  times  dis})osed  to  play 
the  fine  gentleman),  a  shirt-frill  which  had  already 
done  duty  at  a  city  dinner,  and  over  all  this  a  certain 
indescribable  air  of  chagrin  and  weariness,  and  you 
will  have  before  ^on  Piron  at  the  Cafe  Pi'ocope. — 
"  It  is  sui'prising,"  said  Doctor  Procope,  "  that  so  gay 
a  mind  should  dwell  in  so  j^-loomv  a  ]od<z;inf>:." — A 
greater  physiognomist  than  the  doctor  would  have  dis- 
covei'ed  what  was  the  matter  with  Piron.  The  poor 
man  was  fatigued  and  confused  Avith  the  hai'lecpu'nades 
of  his  mind,  lie  no  longer  took  any  interest  in  those 
somewliat  grotesque  witticisms  which  he  broached 
foi-  the  amusement  of  Parisian  cocknej'S  and  literary 
loungers.  His  poetical  nature  took  offence  every 
moment  at  his  buffconerv.  This  was  the  leason  he 
wrote  tragedies;  but  it  was  <»f  no  ur^e ;   he  could  not 


iD 


A  poet's  misery.  107 

propitiate  the  tearful  inuse ;  the  poet  could  not  de- 
throne the  buffoon.  And  besides,  Piron  was  poor, 
always  poor,  and,  even  if  we  are  poets,  we  bear  in 
tlie  end  with  difficulty  the  dark  mantle  of  povert}-. 
Moreover,  Firon  was  alone,  and  nothing  is  so  bitter 
as  the  solitude  of  Pai-is,  the  solitude  of  a  garret,  of  a 
fireless  hearth,  of  a  window  without  the  sun  ;  nothing 
so  bitter  as  the  sio;ht  of  that  deserted  threshold  which 
misery  alone  has  crossed.  A  hand  for  ever  blessed, 
but  which  was  always  concealed,  that  of  tlie  Marrpiis 
de  Lassay,  paid  every  year  five  hundred  livres  to  the 
attorney  of  Piron,  but  this  M-as  the  best  part  of  the 
poet's  income  ;  the  publishers  and  the  actors  did  not 
give  him  as  much.  Piron,  when  thinking  over  the 
Metromanie,  had  not  a  single  crown  for  the  day's 
expenses.  Gilbert  was  never  reduced  to  so  little, 
and  yet  Gilbert  was  never  abandoned  by  love,  like 
Piron.  Alas  !  not  a  single  mistress  in  all  this  disti-ess  ; 
not  a  single  white  hand  to  come  and  support  this 
heavy  brow ;  never  a  gown  or  a  petticoat  on  that 
wretched  bed  ;  never  a  sympathizing  heart  to  con- 
sole this  poor  heart  of  his,  which  groaned  in  silence  ; 
never  a  bouquet  to  perfume  this  sad  chamber;  never 
a  tender  look,  to  revive  sunken  hope ;  never  a  single 
kiss  for  all  these  hidden  tears!  Do  not  talk  any 
more  to  me  of  the  misery  of  Gilbert :  that  grief  had 
only  the  duration  of  a  dream  of  pride  and  angei'. 
Put  the  trrief  of  Piron!  God  knows  how  lingering 
and  pitiless  it  was ;  l)ow  it  assumed  all  forms  to  toi- 
ture  hiju  !  In  the  evening,  it  followed  him  stcj)  by 
fitej)  to  his  chamber,  or  rather  he  fomid  it  ci-ouched 
iip(tn  his  liearth. — '"Good  vwu,  mine  host,"  said  she 
U<    bim.   giving    him    an    iiy    hand;    "so    you    li;ivc 


108  riKON. 

spent  your  crown  and  yonr  epigram.  All,  old  prodigal 
that  Y<Mi  are,  why  did  you  not  i-eserve  five  sons  for  a 
fagot,  or  bring  home  some  compassionate  girl  with 
yon,  who  would  have  driven  away  the  M'inter  of  your 
garret?  You  pass  for  a  wit,  hut  you  are  nc^thing  but 
a  fool,  Monsieur  Piron.  See  Voltaire  and  all  the  rest, 
how  thev  have  i^ot  ahead  of  von.  At  the  theatre 
your  tragedies  are  hissed  ;  garlands  are  thrown  on 
theirs ;  in  society  they  are  grandees  ;  3'ou  are  but  a 
playhouse  drudge  ;  they  have  mistresses,  M'herc  are 
yours?  they  throw  money  out  of  the  window — 
make  your  purse  jingle  a  little  ;  they  belong  to  the 
Academy,  you  would  have  a  veiy  ill  reception  there. 
All  that  you  have  got  at  Paris  has  been  your  gray 
hairs.  What  have  you  got  to  say  to  that,  my  poor 
IJurgundian  poet  ?  "  Piron's  sole  response  is  weepiiigly 
to  letire  to  his  sorry  couch.  In  the  morning,  he  seeks 
some  rhymes  from  his  muse,  a  ■  story,  an  epistle,  a 
scene  from  a  corned}' ;  but  the  muse  is  most  frequently 
chilled  in  this  poor  chamber  of  the  Pue-St.-Thomas- 
du-Louvre,  before  a  few  pieces  of  old  lodging-house 
furniture,  in  the  neighborhood  of  an  old  woman  and 
a  parrot.  When  Piron  opens  the  window,  to  relieve 
his  weariness,  the  rhyme,  already  rebellious,  escapes 
thi-ough  it ;  he  descends  in  pursuit ;  but  it  is  not 
without  trouble  that  he  catches  it  again,  sometimes 
at  the  corner  of  a  street,  sometimes  at  a  friend's  lii'e- 
side. 

In  this  sorrv  dwelling,  where  M.  de  Buffon  and  M. 
Yoltaire  would  not  have  been  able  to  breathe  one 
hour,  or  write  one  line,  Piron  was  nevertheless  visited 
by  some  celebrated  personages ;  but  pity,  i)ity  poor 
]^iron  !     The    nobleman   who   would    have    honored 


THE    METROjNLVNIE.  109 

liimself  in  honoring  the  poet,  spoilt  his  action  bj  an 
ahns  umvortlij  of  a  nobleman  and  of  a  poet:  on 
leaving,  he  deposited,  a  few  lonis  on  the  chimney- 
piece  !  Only  one  nobleman — but  that  one  was  a 
great  writer,  Montesquieu  —  visited  Piron  without 
giving  him  alms ! 

At  last,  after  five  years'  obstinate  perseverance,  the 
Mctromanie^  refused  at  first  by  the  actors,  obtained 
the  honors  of  the  stage  and  the  applause  of  the  spec- 
tators. Pii-on  is  not  the  sole  author  of  this  com- 
edy ;  the  celebrated  Mademoiselle  Quinault,  who  had 
gained  an  ascendency  over  his  mind,  gave  him  good 
advice  after  the  first  reading.  She  did  it  so  well  that 
Piron  recast  the  entire  piece.  "  Patience,  patience," 
said  she  to  him  at  the  second  reading;  "it  will  be  a 
masterpiece ;  but  you  must  remodel  twenty  scenes ; 
give  more  love  to  the  lovers ;  more  reality  to  the  Ca2n- 
Uyul  (an  ofiicer  of  Toulouse) ;  more  liveliness  to  the 
first  act,  for  in  a  comedy  it  will  not  do  to  wait  until  the 
fifth  act  for  a  laujrh.  Take  out  those  uncouth  i-hvmes 
and  those  vulgar  sentences;  omit  those  somewhat  an- 
tiipiated  jokes  ;  read  over  the  Fernmes  Savantes,  and 
I  i)redict  that  all  will  go  well — I,  who  would  be 
shocked  at  being  a  ^femme  savante '  myself.  Patience 
is  genius."  The  reason  which  falls  from  a  pretty 
mouth  is  alwa3's  listened  to.  The  Mctroinanic  is  the 
work  of  patience,  good  counsel,  and  talent,  but  not  of 
genius.  I  shall,  ])erhaps,  cause  offence  if  I  speak 
with  sincerity,  if  1  undertake  to  appeal  against  the 
unanimous  verdict  uf  the  eigiiteenth  century,  which 
has  j)roclaimed  the  Mctroinanie  to  be  the  greatest 
masterpiece  of  comedy.  No ;  the  Mctrouianie  is 
Mot  a  maslcrpiecc  ;   il    i>   a  <'li;irmin<'  comedv  in  the 


110  riRON. 

best  style,  in  wliich  there  is  gajety  of  tlie  ti-ue  stainp, 
vividly-colored  ])ictures,  good  scenes,  sliai-p  sutij-e, 
verses  worthy  of  Moliere,  jioints  of  Jiegnard  ;  but 
there  is  still  a  void  in  this  piece ;  that  void  is  a 
want  of  hnnian  natni-c  that  is  not  made  sufficiently 
apparent.  I'iron's  first  idea  of  the  Mctwmanie  was 
merely  an  epigram  on  A^oltaire.  The  occasion  is 
known.  A  mischievous  poet  of  Brittany,  named 
Desforges  INfaillard,  published  his  verses  in  the  Mer- 
cxire,  over  tlie  signature  of  Mademoiselle  Malcrais 
de  la  Vigne.  Voltaire,  caught  in  this  snare,  the  first 
of  the  Avits,  responded  to  the  coquetry  of  the  Breton 
by  verses  to  Chloris,  perfumed  madrigals,  gallant 
epistles.  It  was  soon  known  with  whom  the  poet 
liad  to  do.  Piron  made  an  epigram  ;  the  ei)igram 
gave  birth  to  a  piece  in  one  act,  and  at  last  from  this 
act  sprang  the  Metromanie.  There  is  a  curious  book 
to  be  written  on  the  history  of  the  ideas  working  in 
the  minds  of  poets. 

Success  consoled  Piron  a  little  in  ins  sorrow,  but 
success  at  fifty  comes  a  little  late.  And  with  success, 
there  was  also  bitter  criticism,  and  soon,  thanks  to 
critics,  actors,  jealous  authors,  the  Metromanie  was 
consigned  to  oblivion.  Three  months  after  the  repre- 
sentation Piron  wrote,  "  I  see  well  that  I  can  do 
iiothino;  more  in  the  world  until  after  I  am  dead." 
Bergerac,  in  the  age  of  quibbles,  would  have  said 
liere,  "  1  must  die,  so  as  not  to  be  buried  ;  "  or,  "  I 
am  a  dead  man  if  I  live  always." 

He  was  none  the  richer  ;  but  if  fortune  did  not 
follow  glory,  glory  leads  love  in  her  footsteps.  Love 
at  fifty  !  Better  late  than  never,  saj's  the  wisdom  of 
nations.     So  one   evening   after  supper,  Piron   was 


A    MATCH.  Ill 

ruminating  on  I  know  not  what  in  Gallet's  sliop 
(Gallet,  the  gay  song-writer,  the  merry  tippler,  Avas, 
besides  and  above  all,  a  grocer),  when  a  damsel  en- 
tered, who  asks  for  coffee  and  matches.  Gallet  hav- 
inir  ffone  out,  Piron  undertook  to  serve  the  demoiselle. 
''  Is  that  all  you  want  ? "  Gallet,  enteriiig  at  that 
moment,  laughingly  said,  "Mademoiselle  ought  to 
have  a  husband  in  the  bargain." — "  Excellent,"  said 
Piron,  "  if  the  damsel  \vill  take  up  with  any  kind  of 
wood  for  her  arrow."  The  demoiselle  blushed,  and 
de])arted  without  saying  a  word. 

The  next  morning  Piron  had  scarcely  risen  when 
she  entered  his  chamber.  "  Monsieur,"  said  she,  all 
in  a  tremor,  "  we  are  two  children  of  Burgundy.  I 
liave  loncc  wanted  to  see  a  man  of  so  much  wit,  and 
liaving  learned  yesterday  that  it  was  you  with  whom 
I  had  to  do  in  M.  Gallet's  shop,  I  have  come  to-day 
unceremoniously  to  pay  you  a  visit.  Oh,  monsieur, 
liow  weary  you  must  grow  liere.  I  was  very  nmch 
afraid  of  findinji;  some  handsome  la<!v  from  the  thea- 
tre  here  ;  but,  God  be  praised,  you  live  like  a  Trappist. 
Have  you  never  thought  of  making  an  end  of  this, 
Monsieur  Piron  ?  "  Piron,  completely  stunned  by 
tiiis  talk,  answered,  "  Alas,  mademoiselle,  I  leave 
the  cai-e  of  that  to  La  Camai'de,  but,  if  you  please, 
wliat  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" — "I  wish  to  say,  iiave 
you  ever  thought  of  marriage  ?" — "Xot  much,  made- 
moiselle ;  ]»ray  sit  down  while  I  light  the  iire." 
''  ^'ou  don't  know.  Monsieur  Piron  ?  it  will  make  you 
laugh  ;  so  nmch  the  woi-se  ;  I  shall  speak  ])lainly. 
If  your  lieart  has  the  same  sentiments  as  mine.  ..." 
Pir(»n,  more  and  more  astonished,  looked  at  tlie  lady 
in  silence — "  In  a  word,  Monsieur  Piron,  I  come  to 


112  nuoN. 

offer  3011  my  lieart  and  my  liaiul,  not  forgetting  my 
life  annuity  of  two  thousand  livrcs." 

Piron,  contrary  to  his  custom,  took  all  this  seriously; 
he  was  touched  to  find  at  last  a  compassionate  soul ; 
the  Youne;  ffirl  had  tcai's  in  her  eves  ;  he  embraced 
hor  with  warmth.  "  I  leave  to  you,"  said  he  to  her, 
'"all  the  preparations  for  the  Avedding.  Gallet  will 
write  our  epithalamium." — "You  see  me.  Monsieur 
Piron,  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world.  I  did  not  hope 
for  so  happy  a  conclusion,  for — I  do  not  wish  to  con- 
ceal anything  from  you — I  am — I  am  fifty-three." 
— "  "Well,  then,"  said  Piron,  with  a  slight  shrug,  "  we 
have  over  a  hundred  yeai's  between  ns.  We  w^ould 
liave  done  well  to  have  met  sooner." 

You  see  that  Love  played  Piron  all  sorts  of  tricks ; 
he  deserted  him  in  the  best  days  of  his  life,  when  he 
might  have  appeared  to  him  on  a  path  strewed  with 
spring  roses,  in  the  sweet  and  merry  company  of  the 
graces,  to  the  music  of  the  pipes  of  the  lively  and 
smiling  Erato  ;  and  to  complete  his  mockery,  Love 
came  to  visit  the  poet  mider  the  frowning  aspect  of 
an  ancient  maiden,  when  the  poet  was  only  expecting 
death. 

The  marriage  went  off  gayly  enongh.  This  old 
maid  was  good-natured  ;  she  was  a  devoted  sister, 
friend,  and  servant,  to  Piron.  lie  became  so  habit- 
uated to  seeing  her  make  the  coffee  in  the  morning, 
to  hearing  her  graceful  prattle  in  the  chimney  corner, 
lie  was  so  charmed  with  the  enthusiasm  she  had  for 
his  writings,  that  he  avowed  himself  the  happiest  of 
husbands.  lie  was  no  longer  alone  ;  he  was  no  longer 
reduced  to  a  single  crown  a  day,  and  could  refuse  to 
go  out  to  dinner  when  the  weather  was  bad  ;  he  could 


HIS    WIFE    DIES.  113 

now  and  then  bnj  a  comedy  of  Moliere,  and  a  tragedy 
of  Corneille  ;  he  could  in  his  turn  give  ahiis,  not  on 
a  chimney-piece,  but  at  the  corner  of  the  street ;  he 
could  at  last  receive  his  friends  at  his  own  hearth, 
like  a  grandee.  One  nmst  have  felt  the  want  of  a 
crown  to  comprehend  this  prosaic  happiness  of  the 
poet. 

But  there  is  no  happiness  so  humble  but  that  it 
lias  its  reverse  ;  the  good  old  wife  of  Piron  was  struck 
with  paralysis  five  years  after  marriage  ;  she  lingered 
for  five  more  in  this  condition  ;  she  died,  carrying 
with  her  the  bitter  regrets  of  Piron,  and  the  two 
thousand  livres  amniity.  AVill  it  be  believed  ?  never 
did  a  husband  M'eep  more  sincerely  the  death  of  his 
wife. 

The  poor  poet  did  not  remain  alone ;  thaidis  to  a 
niece  who  came  to  him  out  of  compassion,  not  know- 
ing moreover  where  else  to  go.  This  niece  was  Piron's 
last  support.  lie  was  almost  blind  ;  she  led  him 
cverywliere,  without  complaining  of  his  whims  ;  she 
wrote  out  his  verses,  read  to  him  those  of  others  ;  in 
a  W(ird,  was  liis  second  sight. 

Every  year  Colic,  Panard,  Gallet,  and  the  rest  of 
the  joyous  band,  celebrated  Piron's  birthday.  The 
one  which  occurred  two  years  befoie  his  death  was 
the  most  delightful  of  his  life.  From  the  l)ieak  of 
day,  verses  and  bouquets  showered  in  upon  him,  and 
old  friends  and  songs  revived  his  sunken  gayety. 
They  had  crowned  him,  in  spite  of  himself,  with  lo.ses, 
myi-tles,  and  laurels.  "  I  still  tiiink  that  1  see  and 
liear  liim,"  says  Dussault ;  "  he  was  Anacrcon — he 
was  more,  lie  was  Pindar."  Suddenlv,  a  ncwlv- 
arrived   guest  approached    near   Piron  ;    farewell   to 

lU* 


114  riiiON. 

verses  ami  bouquets,  to  songs  and  crowns.  The  new- 
comer was  a  sad,  proscribed  man,  a  soul  in  pain,  an 
unfortunate  genius,  a  man  for  ever  celebrated  ;  it  was 
J.  J.  TiOussean !  Piron  seized  Jean  Jacques'  liaiid, 
j)laccd  it  upon  his  licart  ^vitll  a  cry  of  joy,  and  with 
a  stentorian  voice,  i-aised  tlie  JVunc  dirtiittis  servum 
imim,  Domine  ! — "  So  it  is  you  at  last,  my  dear 
Itousscau  !  Oil,  thou  man  of  head  and  heart !  And 
so  the  barbarians  have  burnt  your  Emile.  So  much 
the  better  ;  the  incense  of  such  a  holocaust  must  needs 
have  delighted  the  angels!  But  how  caaie  you  to 
think  of  coming  to  see  me,  for  you  are  far  from  going 
everywhere?  Is  it  to  contrast  wisdom  with  folly? 
l>y-tlieby,  do  you  pardon  me  for  those  epigrams  ? 
What  would  you  have  ?  my  wine  is  sharp — "  — "  I 
do  more,"  interrupted  llousseau ;  "I  am  waiting 
for  others,  joyous  nursling  of  Bacchus;  spoilt  child 
of  the  Muses !  Be  always  the  same ;  always  Pi- 
ron !  You  were  born  mischievous,  you  were  never 
wicked!" 

Piron  replied,  and  for  an  hour  there  was  a  dazzling 
display  of  fireworks.  iS'ever  had  his  wit  thrown  off 
a  more  brilliant  shower  of  bon-mots.  Jean  Jacques 
never  returned. — "You  will  retui-n,"  said  Dussault 
to  him,  as  they  descended  the  stairs. — "  IS'o,"  he 
answered,  "  this  steady  fire  fatigues  and  dazzles  me  ; 
I  am  all  out  of  breath.  What  a  man  I  It  is  a 
Pythia  on  its  tripod  ! " — "  Ah,  my  friends !"  exclaimed 
Piron,  as  soon  as  Jean  Jacques  had  gone,  "  pardon 
me  these  tears;  you  see  I  am  weeping  like  an  infant." 
Piron  was  a  man  of  sensibilit}-. 

In  1735,  the  Academy  was  desirous  of  honoring  in 
a  worthy  manner  the  glory  of  Piron.     He  was  unani- 


THE    CnUKClI    AND    THE    ACADEMY.  1  1  5 

mouslj  elected  *  without  having  made  the  usual  vis- 
its. M.  de  Bongaiiiville,  who  presented  himself 
for  admission,  did  not  neglect  the  visits. — "  I  was 
under  the  impression,"  said  jMontesquieii,  "  that  you 
were  making  the  visits  for  Piron," — "  What  are  your 
claims  r'  ashed  Duclos. — "A  parallel  hetween  Alex- 
ander and  Thamas  Khouli-Khan."  — "  We  have  not 
read  it." — ''  But,  monsieur,  I  have  another  claim  :  I 
am  dying  !  " — Duclos  smiled,  and  replied,  "  Do  you 
consider  the  xVcademy  in  the  light  of  extreme  unc- 
tion ?  "  Tliis  M.  de  Bougainville  with  the  old  Bishop 
of  Mirepoix  made  war  on  Piron.  lie  prepared  the 
arms ;  the  old  prelate  went  to  the  hing,  Louis  XY., 
to  remind  him  that  Piron  had  been  guilty  of  a  master- 
piece of  libertinism.  '*  I  beg  you,  sire,  to  refuse  your 
sanction  to  this  act  of  the  Academy." — Madame  de 
Pompadour  took  up  the  defence  of  Piron,  but  the 
devotees  were  so  determined,  that  the  king  had  not 
the  force  to  resist ;  so  the  name  of  Piron  was  for  ever 
erased  from  that  famous  list.  After  that  dav,  he 
wrote  liis  epitaph,  the  most  celebrated  of  epitaphs. f 
As  soon  as  Montesquieu  learned  the  king's  refusal, 
lie  repaired  to  the  court,  and  advocated  the  claims 
of  Piron  with  so  much  eloquence  that  the  king  at  once 
signed  an  order  for  a  pension  of  a  thousand  livres  for 
the  aged  poet.  Madame  de  Pompadour  added  five 
liiindi'ed  more  from  her  pocket-money.     The  Count 

*  Before  voting,  the  claims  of  Piron  wc-rc  canvassed.  Fontenclle, 
n  'arly  <li.*af,  and  almost  a  Imndred  years  old,  asked  La  Chaussec  what 
was  goinK  on.  The  latter  took  a  piece  of  jiajjer,  on  which  he  wrote, 
"They  are  diHCUHHing  M.  Pirou.  We  are  all  agreed  that  he  well  merits 
the  chair;  but  he  lias  written  his  Ot/c,  that  0(/c  you  know  of."—"  Oh, 
ye*,"  naid  Font<-n<-llc  ;  "if  he  has  written  it,  he  must  be  well  lectured, 
but  if  hif  liaH  not  done  it,  he  can  not  be  adniittcil." 

f  "  Hero  Uc»  Piron,  who  waH  nothing,  not  even  an  Academician  !  " 


JIC)  riuoN. 

de  St.  Florentiii  and  the  Marquis  de  Livry  followed 
this  good  exain|>le ;  so  that  Piron  suddenly  recovered 
his  annuity  of  two  thousand  livres,  which  had  ceased 
with  the  life  of  his  Avifc.  In  addition,  he  regulaily 
received  the  anonymous  pension  of  M.  de  J^a^-say, 
and,  besides,  his  recei})ts  from  the  sale  of  his  woi'ks 
and  his  plays  averaged  a  thousand  livres  a-year ;  so 
that  he  was  almost  rich.*  Do  you  know  then  what 
he  did?  He  tuined  devotee!  As  a  first  sacrifice — 
I  will  not  say  to  God,  hut  to  his  confessor — he  burnt 
a  l)il)le,  the  margins  of  the  pages  of  which  he  had  en- 
livened with  lamentations  and  epigrams  in  his  peculiar 
style.  He  then  set  himself  to  translating  the  psalms 
and  wa-iting  odes  on  the  Last  Judgment.  He  said  in 
relation  to  this,  "  It  is  better  to  preach  from  the  ladder 
of  the  gallows  than  not  to  preach  at  all.'' — This  edify- 
ing old  age  opened  the  doors  of  the  religious  world 
to  him  ;  he  was  even  received  by  the  Archbishop  of 
Paris ;  but  the  archbishop  was  not  thereby  secure 
against  the  epigrams  of  the  poet.  One  day,  in  pres- 
ence of  a  large  company,  the  archbishop  said  to  him 
with  a  nonchalance  which  betrayed  sonie  little  vanity, 
"  Well,  Piron,  have  you  read  my  charge  ?  " — "  No, 
mon seigneur,  have  you  ? " 

All  are  not  austere  who  wish  to  be.  Piron  in 
spite  of  himself,  was  lively  until  death.  Like  Voltaire, 
he  lived  to  be  eighty-three  and  a-half.  His  father 
had  sung  his  birth  ;  poets  were  found  to  sing  his 
death.  Imbert  composed  a  lachrymose  elegy  on  the 
sultject,  which  would  have  heartily  amused  the  de- 
funct.    His  niece  was  full  of  love  and  solicitude  for 

*  Besides  these,  Madame  Geoffrin  sent  him,  as  a  new-year's  gift,  hia 
stock  of  sugar  and  coflee  for  the  entire  year. 


A    POSTHUMOUS    DEATH.  117 

him.  Althongli  lie  had  become  stone-blind,  he  always 
saw  clear  through  his  niece's  ejes  ;  however,  Xanette 
having  married  Capron,  the  musician,  concealed  the 
marriaire  from  hiin  out  of  regard  for  his  feeble  state, 
fearing  that  he  might  think  that,  since  she  was  mar- 
ried, she  Tuight  consequently  some  time  neglect  or 
abandon  him.  For  three  years  she  received  her  hus- 
band every  day  at  the  old  man's  table,  fancying  that 
Piron  was  not  £Lware  of  his  presence  ;  but  Piron  knew 
all,  and  said  to  his  friends,  "Kanette  has  the  parcel ; 
1  shall  have  a  heartv  laugh  after  my  death."  This 
]»arcel  was  his  will,  which  commenced  with  tiiis  line  : 
"•  /  declare  my  nieee^  Madame  Cajyron^  my  sole  and 
entire  heir:- — This  is  worth  more  than  all  his  jokes. 

Poor  Burgundian  poet !  Love  did  not  find  him 
out  until  the  age  Mhen  one  no  longer  loves  ;  and  for- 
tune only  visited  him  in  time  to  enable  him  to  have 
something  to  bequeath. 

lY. 

Piron  is  one  of  the  original  men  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  lie  has  not  distorted  his  face  to  make  him- 
self resemble  this  man  or  that.  Alexis  Piron  he  Avas 
born ;  and,  Alexis  Piron,  died.  He  had  great  com- 
passion for  those  sorry  rhymesters  such  as  Lemiere  or 
L'l  Ilarpe,  who  sometimes  steal  success,  thanks  to 
a  certain  family  likeness  with  Voltaire  or  llacino, 
which  they  gain  by  copying  a  line  here  and  a  scene 
there.— "I  have,"  said  he,  "more  right  to  be  proud 
of  a  fjiilure  than  they  have  of  a  success." — A  profouiul 
study  of  the  Purgundian  jujct  reveals  many  bohl 
attempts  in  the  domain  of  art.  In  the  first  place, 
Piron  wished,  by  a  somewhat  hazardous  conflict  be- 


118  rru'oN. 

twecn  the  different  human  passions,  to  bring  a  smile 
on  tlie  lips  and  a  tear  in  the  eye  at  the  same  time. 
Men's  minds,  however,  wei-e  then  but  ill  prepared  to 
agree  with  the  imiovator.  They  thought  it  very  ill- 
advised  of  him  to  desire  to  overthi-ow  the  harriers 
placed  between  Moliere  and  Corneille.  The  scheme 
has  since  been  tried  with  more  success,  but  it  is  well  to 
remember  the  attempt  of  Piron.  In  the  second  place, 
in  Ila/'lequin  Deucalion,  the  poet  lias  brought  in 
l^lay  all  the  charms  of  fancy,  lie  dared  to  be  a  poet 
at  his  ease,  fearless  and  unshackled.  Rameau,  the 
author  of  the  music  of  Harlequin  Deucalion,  took, 
lie  said,  a  magmficent  delight  in  the  i-eprescntations 
of  this  little  masterpiece  ;  and  there  is  in  truth  much 
magnificence  in  its  composition.  If  we  could  blot 
out  a  few  vulgarisms,  it  M'ould  be  one  of  the  most 
charming  and  fanciful  conceptions  in  French  litera- 
ture. Finally,  Firon  has  somewhat  renovated  rhyme ; 
he  allowed  himself,  to  the  great  scandal  of  the  Abbe 
Desfontaines,  to  put  j)lt'ates  and  soujnrdtes,  mai  and 
clmrme,  in  juxtaposition;  in  his  songs  he  rhymes 
twelve  times  in  og  and  twelve  times  in  vent,  without 
stopping.  Moi-eover,  Piron  has  not  always  regarded 
the  cesura,  and  has  without  ceremony  allowed  the 
sense  of  a  line  to  pass  into  the  next.  We  must,  above 
all,  be  grateful  to  Pii-on,  for  having  attempted  at  a 
time  M-hen  an  affected  jargon  prevailed,  to  bring 
again  into  favor  the  ancient  French  verse,  bequeathed 
by  Marot.  Unfortunately,  Piron  was  more  vulgar 
tlian  simple.  However,  one  can  not  deny  him  a 
piquant  turn,  full  of  boldness  and  fj-eedom,  a  true 
])liilosophy  and  point,  Avorthy  of  his  ])redecessor.  In 
the  Quenouille  Merveilleuse,  he  thus  speaks  of  love: 


A    PARALLEL.  119 

The  roguish  hoy,  his  sole  delight 
Confusion,  thus  unwinds  each  night 
The  thread  that  every  day  is  wound  ; 
This,  the  sisters  three,  in  daily  round, 
Must  wind  again  without  respite. 

In  another  tale,  he  portrays  in  an  agreeable  manner 
the  diverse  natnres  which  contend  within  ns  :  — 

My  being  into  two  natures  is  rent 
Some  elfin  sprite,  upon  malice  intent. 
Sets  them  by  the  ears  to  quarrel  and  fight, 
While  mine  is  the  loss,  and  his  the  delight. 
Dogs  and  cats  very  much  better  agree 
Tlian  these  two  odd  natures  that  make  up  me. 
One  clings  to  earth  ;  to  heaven  one  does  tend, 
Tlius  they  bicker,  thus  they  ever  contend. 
But  all  my  evil  does  not  come  from  those ; 
A  much  worse  evil  disturbs  my  repose : 
A  third  nature  comes,  a  decision  to  make 
Of  the  case,  hut's  puzzled  which  side  to  take. 
Still  doubting,  and  still  quite  undecided, 
Becomes,  like  me,  in  two  parts  divided. 
If  wisdom's  skill  no  remedy  can  find, 
A  thousand  natn  es  will  divide  my  mind; 
So  with  the  two  natures  now  I  am  done  ; 
I  am  content  to  be  no  more  than  one. 
Let  it  be  understood,  tliat,  from  this  date, 
I'm  but  one  nature,  without  any  mate. 

These  are  sufficient  to  characterize  the  manner  of 
Piron,  M-hich  has  some  analogy  with  that  of  Gresset. 
Tliere  is  a  little  more  apparent  or  ill-disgnised  labor 
in  the  first;  a  little  more  freedom,  not  in  the  ideas, 
but  in  the  verse,  of  the  second ;  in  both  the  same 
general  features,  the  same  clouded  sky,  tlic  same 
limited  horizon.  Tbe  parallel  might  be  pushed  far 
between  these  two  poets  who  lived  and  shone  at  the 
same  time,  pretty  much   in  the  same  way,  who  were 


120  I'lIiON. 

irrellfj^ioiis  in  their  joutli,  devotees  in  tlieir  last  clays, 
and  authors  of  two  of  the  four  comedies  of  their  aijo. 
"VVe  should  find  an  analogy  almost  as  striking  in  the 
details  of  their  lives  and  works ;  hiit  I  leave  the 
tracing  out  of  it  to  others.  I  wish  also,  in  passing, 
to  contrast  with  that  of'  Piron  the  curious  face  of 
^carron.  At  first  sight  the  two  heads  arc  illumined 
by  a  peculiar  ray  of  gayety  which  I  can  not  descrihe ; 
but  by  degrees  this  deceptive  gayety  vanishes,  its 
rays  become  effaced,  and  nothing  is  left  hut  the  refiex 
of  the  heart ;  and  as  the  heart  suffers  you  behold  that 
gloomy  sadness  which  hides  itself  and  devours  its 
tears  under  a  forced  laugh. 

Piron,  who  Avrote  prose  in  a  very  original  style, 
has  passed  this  \ory  queer  but  true  judgment  on  his 
own  poetry :  "  These  are  but  rhymes  which  have 
been  tacked  to  the  prose  which  gayly  circulates  at  the 
end  of  a  repast."  Like  Yoltaire,  Piron  wanted  to 
be  universal  in  poetry — tragedies,  comedies,  poems, 
odes,  epistles,  tales,  eclogues,  idylls,  ])astorals ;  he 
has  tried  everything  in  his  range.  If  the  liarvest 
lias  not  been  abundant,  he  has  at  least  gathered  some 
golden  ears  which  will  long  make  him  remembered. 

Piron's  poetry  lacks  scope  and  sunlight ;  he  wanted 
tlie  white  wings  of  love  to  transport  him  to  the  celes- 
tial regions,  for,  without  love,  Piron  remained  with 
Ins  feet  nailed  to  the  ground,  cultivating  his  genius 
l)etween  four  walls.  His  youth,  moreover,  had  been 
fatal  to  poetry  ;  and  as  is  the  j'outh,  so  the  poet. 
Poeti-y  is  the  mirror  of  the  poet's  youth  ;  for  poetry 
is  a  beautiful  ijirl  who  does  not  forget.  See  that  she 
sometimes  thinks  of  heaven  her  former  liome.  If  the 
poet  passes  his  youth  in  the  dark,  poeti-y  will  heat 


THE    rOET    PEXITENT.  121 

her  wings  in  the  dark ;  if  he  spends  his  joiith  in  a 
tavern,  in  the  train  of  gross  pleasures,  his  only  pur- 
guit  will  be  the  muse  of  jovial  huinor,  he  will  excite 
lano-hter ;  but  the  fountain  of  tears  is  a  divine  foun- 
tain. If  he  passes  his  best  days  in  love — that  noble 
and  tender  love  of  Petrarch,  that  noble  and  passion- 
ate love  of  Jean  Jacques — a  ray  from  heaven  will 
illumine  his  work.  After  love,  it  is  solitude  that  is 
needed  for  the  youth  of  the  poet — that  rural  solitude 
which  introduces  us  to  the  works  of  God  ;  the  desert 
rock  against  which  the  noisy  vanities  of  the  woi'ld 
are  broken  ;  the  dense  forest,  Avhere  one  hears  his 
soul  sing  in  the  magnificent  concert  of  the  breeze, 
and  the  storm,  and  the  leaves,  and  the  birds ;  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  on  which  the  sun  at  his  setting  casts 
a  last  look.  This  solitude  Piron  never  looked  for; 
this  love  Piron  never  found.  Therefore  in  his  po- 
etry Nature  never  even  shows  the  hem  of  her  robe, 
and  the  heart  is  never  there.  "With  love  and  soli- 
tude the  poet  should  combine  thoughts  of  heaven. 
God  himself  is  only  a  source  of  wit  to  the  profane 
youth  of  Piron.  AVhen  he  sought  God  at  the  end 
of  his  days,  it  was  too  late,  not  for  his  soul,  but  for 
his  poetry.  In  vain  did  he  translate  psalms  with 
pious  meditation  and  in  serious  verse ;  the  divine  in- 
R})iration  could  not  1)0  ti-anslated.  God  loves  and 
blesses  those  poets  who  seek  hun  during  their  best 
days,  in  the  full  bloom  of  youth,  in  the  first  budding 
of  the  soul  ;  CJod  ])erhaps  is  severe  U)  those  who  for- 
get bim  amid  the  vain  joys  of  earth,  who  i-emember 
liis  name  only  at  the  threshold  of  the  tomb,  who 
oidy  bow  their  heads  before  his  might  when  beneath 
the  snows  of  death. 


THE   ABBE   PREVOST. 

In  tliG  time  of  tlic  Abho  Provost,  abbes  were 
agreeable  pagans  wlio  lived  gajlj  witbont  tbe  bounds 
of  tbe  cbnrcb.  Tbeir  interpretation  of  scripture  dif- 
fered from  tliat  of  tbe  })resent  day.  Tbej  frequented 
tbe  court,  tbe  balls,  tbe  operas  ;  tbey  wore  masks, 
intrigued,  and  said  tbeir  prayers  after  supper.  Tbey 
did  not  trouble  tbemselves  tben  about  keeping  diaries 
and  writing  cbarges:  tbe  answer  of  Piron  to  tbe 
Arcbbisbop  of  Paris  is  mx'H  known. 

Tbe  Abbe  Prevost  M^as  always  sincere,  Mdietber 
witb  Benedictines  or  soldiers,  wbetber  be  prayed  to 
God  or  to  bis  misti'css.  He  represents  in  turn  Des- 
grieux  and  Tibei'ge ;  and  do  not  tbese  two  cbaracters 
of  bis  novel  correspond  witb  tbe  two  natures  wbicli 
were  constantly  at  strife  in  tbat  beart  at  once  so  great 
and  so  feeble  ?  Desgrienx  and  Tiberge  are  action 
and  reaction — tbe  folly  wbicb  escapes  control,  the 
reason  wbicb  takes  tbe  upper  band.  Tbe  novel-writer 
could  not  express  tbe  contradictions  of  bis  lieart  and 
bis  life  but  by  painting  bimself  under  two  contrast- 
ing figures.  Some  bave  attempted  to  draw  a  paral- 
lel between  Marion  de  J.ornie  and  Manon  Lescaut ; 


mS    ItOMLANTIc;    LIFE.  123 

the^'  have  said  tliat  Marion  de  Lonnc  was  the  object 
which  the  Abbe  Prevost  wished  to  delineate.  They 
are  mistaken.  Marion  de  Lornie  always  knew  what 
she  was  about,  Manon  Lescaut  never  ;  the  first  lis- 
tened to  her  vanity,  the  second  only  to  her  caprice; 
the  mistress  of  Cinq  Mars  looked  for  greatness,  the 
mistress  of  Desgrieux  only  for  pleasure.  A  more 
curious  ])ai'allcl  would  bo  that  between  Manon  Les- 
caut and  Virginia.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  the 
rich  and  goi'geous  nature  of  the  tropics  Avas  for 
the  poets  what  the  East  is  to  us — an  ideal  zone  to 
which  our  most  chei-ished  day-dreams  tend.  Ber- 
iiardin  do  Saint  Pierre's  heroine  was  born  in  a  scene 
i^imilar  to  that  in  which  that  of  the  Abbe  Prevost 
died.  The  two  novels  are  connected  by  the  same 
poetry  of  love  and  natural  scenery.  Virginia  dying 
in  all  her  purity  is  still  the  sister  of  Manon  Lescaut 
dying  crowned  with  sullied  roses,  but  who  is  saved 
throuirh  love. 

What  a  poetical,  romantic,  and  singular  existence 
was  that  of  the  Abbe  Prevost,  Mdio  was  thrice  a 
Jesuit,  twice  a  soldier,  a  long  time  an  exile,  always 
a  lover,  whether  in  the  n}arshes  of  Holland,  the  fogs 
of  England,  the  cell  of  the  cloister,  or  the  Avine-shops 
of  Pai'is!  A  gifted,  haj)py,  inconstant  being,  such 
as  tlie  ])citv  was  pleased  to  create  on  a  day  of  mel- 
ancholy  gayety,  with  more  heart  than  head,  more 
poct^_)'  than  wit,  more  dreams  than  reflection — such 
are  the  piivileges  of  those  beautiful  creations  which 
o\j>and  in  all  their  strength  and  all  their  splendor, 
lluwci's  which  bloom  in  a  fine  season,  and  have  felt 
in  tlicir  warm  mornings  the  dew,  the  suidight,  and 
the  storm. 


124  Tirio  Aunio  trkvost. 

For  tlio  Abbe  Provost,  life  Avas  a  romance  and  a 
journej.  Merolj'  to  relate  Iiis  liistorj'^  wonld  require 
an  entii'c  volume  ;  it  is  a  task  worthy  of  temptiiii!;  a 
poetic  mind.  How  n)any  charming  c{)isodes,  how 
many  picturesque  contrasts  ;  Avhether,  as  the  hero,  on 
a  line  April  morning,  \vhile  the  birds  are  singing,  he 
escapes  from  the  convent  to  assume  the  uniform  of  a 
guardsman  ;  or  whether  he  returns,  heail-broken  by 
an  infatuated  passion,  to  knock  at  the  doors  of  the 
monastery,  lienceforth  his  tomb,  tlie  saddest  of  tombs, 
that  of  the  heart.  All  men  here  below  pursue  chime- 
ras :  fortune,  glory,  love,  poetry — chimeras  wliich  have 
not  grown  old  since  the  golden  age,  and  which  always 
entice  ns  to  all  the  dangers  of  the  shore.  Did  the 
Abbe  Prevost  think  of  these  ?  Manon,  his  dear 
Manon,  was  the  pei'sonification  of  his  chimera  ;  she 
was  the  enchanted  image  ever  before  his  ej^es, 
whether  he  was  singing  in  the  guard-room,  whether 
in  revery  or  pi'ayer  in  liis  cell.  His  chimera  was  a 
mingling  of  love  and  poetry;  if  he  was  permitted  to 
follow  her,  to  love  hei',  to  lose  her,  to  love  her  again, 
he  asked  no  more.  What  mattered  gloiy  and  fortune 
to  him?  Manon!  Manon!  it  was  his  dream,  it  was 
his  life.  Yes,  Desgrieux  was  himself,  he  who  pur- 
sued this  charming  image — and  like  the  image  of 
happiness  she  escaped  him  as  soon  as  he  seized  her. 

Has  Manon  Lescaut  existed  ?  is  she  a  dream  of 
the  poet  ?  is  she  a  recollection  of  the  lover  ?  What 
a  beautiful  histoi-y  for  delicate  intelligences  would 
this  he  which  should  inform  ns  how  a  book  is  formed  : 
the  first  inspirations,  and  their  dazzling  effects,  the 
I'outes  chosen,  the  unfrequented  side-paths,  the  hajipy 
hours  of  labor,  the  fatigues  and  despairs,  the  reviving 


LOVE    AT    FIFPEEN.  125 

ardors,  and  at  last  the  final  pages  in  which  the  njau 
of  genius  pours  out  his  soul ! 

The  Abbe  Prevost  wrote  his  book  in  London,  dur- 
ing his  exile,  at  the  age  of  retrospection,  at  the  age 
when  one's  dreams  are  only  with  tlie  past.  Manon, 
Lescaut  is  a  reminiscence,  a  reminiscence  of  his 
country,  but,  above  all,  of  his  heart.  Do  you  ask  for 
the  proof?  It  is  on  every  page  of  the  book;  the 
proof  is  the  verity  of  the  recital  and  the  verity  of  the 
passion.  A  dreamer  can  never  attain  that.  Goethe 
wrote  Werter  with  a  recollection  of  the  time  when 
he  was  twenty  ;  the  Abbo  Provost  put  his  entire  youth 
into  Manon  Lescaut.  The  finest  romances  arc  made 
by  destiny,  by  chance,  by  God  himself.  The  proof 
is  also  to  be  had  in  every  page  of  the  life  of  the 
Abbe  Prevost,  who  passes  incessantly  from  Tibergc 
to  Desfjrieux,  and  from  Desjijrieux  to  Tiberaje.  But 
look  at  his  history. 

Fran9ois  Prevost  d'Exiles  was  born  in  xipril,  1697, 
at  llesdin,  in  Artois;  his  fathei',  kiuij^'s  proeeureur, 
was  liis  first  tutor.  lie  was  soon  placed  under  the 
Jesuits  of  llesdin,  who  wei-c  happy  to  have  at  their 
lessons  a  youth  so  mild  and  ingenuous,  full  of  zeal 
for  religion  and  science.  When  tlie  scholar  was 
fifteen,  his  father  sent  him  to  complete  his  studies 
at  Paris,  at  the  College  d'llarcourt.  On  this  first 
joiu'ney  he  met  a  young  girl  whose  name  is  un- 
known ;  perhaps  she  was  none  other  than  this  pretty 
ManoM,  so  fresh,  amiable,  and  lively,  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  romance.  You  have  not  forgotten  the 
cliiirmiiig  picture  of  this  first  rencontre.  The  king's 
jH'oeeureur  wanted  to  mukc  his  son  an  abbe;  the 
parents  of  the  young  girl  were  sending  her  to  Amiens 

11* 


126  TIIK    AI5IJK    I'KKVOST. 

to  become  a  nun.  T.nt  see  how  the  future  abbe 
met  tlie  future  nun.  Sucli  arc  tlie  sports  of  des- 
tiny. The  schohvr  timidly  advanced  toward  her  who 
was  ah'eady  tbe  mistress  of  liis  lieart ;  she  was  very 
willing  to  postpone  her  entrance  into  the  convent  to 
the  n)orrow,  in  order  to  have  the  pleasure  of  snpping 
with  him  who  discoursed  so  Avell  about  the  tyianny 
of  parents  and  the  luxp})iness  of  love.  What  was 
the  first  consequence  of  this  meeting  ?  Did  the  two 
j-oung  people  content  themselves  with  sup])ing  to- 
gether at  the  hotel  ?  The  inn  scene  narrated  farther 
on  perhaps  indicates  what  must  have  passed  at  this 
first  interview.  Whatever  it  was,  Provost  ai'i-ived 
without  mnch  dela}^  at  the  College  d'llarcourt ;  but 
did  the  pretty  girl  reach  the  convent? 

The  Jesnits,  astonished  at  the  intelligence  of  Pre- 
A'ost,  his  gentleness,  and  liis  personal  chai-ms,  caressed 
him,  and  decided  him  on  his  novitiate.  His  heart 
beat  A'agnely  at  the  recollection  of  Manon.  Her 
form,  so  fresh  and  smiling,  appeared  to  him  at  the 
opening  door  of  the  world.  But  he  had  as  yet  only 
the  desire  for  holy  joys.  Heaven  spoke  more  loudly 
than  Manon.  However,  one  moi-ning,  when  he  was 
scarcely  sixteen.  Provost,  bent  sadly  over  a  folio, 
heard  the  casement  shaken  from  the  flap])ing  of  a 
bird's  wing  against  it.  It  was  a  swallow,  who  had 
mistaken  the  window  for  a  place  to  build  her  nest. 

Kothing  more  w'as  wanted  to  change  the  life  of  the 
studious  scholar.  He  opened  the  window  ;  he  saw 
over  the  roofs  the  sky,  the  sun,  a  clump  of  tree-tops 
swayed  gently  by  the  wind.  He  set  himself  again 
to  study ;  but  the  place  in  which  he  was,  suddenly 
appeared  so  sad,  so  sombre,  so  desolate  to  him,  that 


CAMP    AND    CLOISTER.  127 

lie  rushed  out  as  if  lie  had  lost  his  wits.  "When  he 
found  hiniself  in  the  street,  he  asked  himself  where 
he  should  go,  with  some  terror  at  the  recollection  of 
the  stern  figure  of  his  father.  He  said  to  himself 
that  he  should  never  dare  to  see  him  again ;  he  did 
not  dare  even  to  write  to  him.  Did  he  search  for 
Manon  in  the  lab\'riiith  of  human  passions  which  is 
called  Paris?  lie  has  not  said  so;  it  is  allowable  to 
doubt  whether  he  was  faithful  to  the  recollection  of 
his  first  love. 

You  see  that  the  romance  of  life  commenced  early 
with  Prevost.  AVe  have  no  particulars  of  this  page 
of  his  youth.  "We  only  know  that  after  some  days  of 
poetic  vagabondizing  in  Paris  he  enlisted  as  a  simple 
volunteer,  hoping  to  make  his  way  in  the  army.  He 
conducted  himself  bravely,  but  did  not  achieve  for- 
tune. He  took  part  in  the  last  battles  of  Louis  XIY. 
He  saw  the  war  ended  without  the  hope  of  gaining  a 
runic.  In  his  impatient  ardor,  not  wishing  to  remain 
a  soldier  during  peace,  he  hurried  into  seclusion  at 
La  Fleche,  among  the  Jesuit  fathers.  He  wished  to 
renounce  the  seductions  and  vanities  of  the  world. 
Touched  bv  the  i-emonstranccs  of  his  father,  he  swore 
that  he  would  henceforth  live  in  the  austere  solitude 
of  a  cloister. 

As  long  as  the  winter  lasted,  he  was  pleased  with 
this  life  of  labor  and  refiection.  The  gloom  of 
November,  the  snows  of  January,  fortified  him  in 
tiiese  wise  resolves;  he  wished  long  to  enjoy  these 
aiist(!re  pleasures,  the  perfumeless  lilies  gathered. at 
the  foot  of  the  cross.  Ihit  tiie  spring  returned  ;  "  I 
am  lost,"  tiiouj^dit  Pn'vost,  as  the  first  ray  of  tlu;  sun 
full   on   his   forehead,      llu    went    to    confos    to   the 


128  TIIK    A15TJK    PKEVOST, 

diroctor :  '^My  fatlici",  iny  lieart  is  :ii;-:iin  opon  to  tlic 
scHluctioiis  of  the  woild.  Save  nic  !  prevent  nie  from 
always  listeniiii^  to  tliose  tleceitfnl  jojs  wliicli  entice 
me  to  niv  ruin  !  I  wish  to  live  with  vou  ;  to  live  for 
(rod  in  tlie  sacred  paths  in  which  yon  Avalk  !" 

After  this  confession,  Prevost  connected  himself  hy 
oath  with  the  order  of  the  Jesnit  fathei'S.  For  some 
days,  a  renewed  fervor  inflamed  his  heart  and  mind  ; 
he  composed  an  ode  in  honor  of  St,  Fi-ancis  Xavier, 
hut  the  ode  was  scarcely  finished  when  this  fine 
fervor  vanished.  The  image  of  Manon  had  re- 
turned to  float  before  his  eves  like  a  fairv  M'ho  prom- 
ises  a  thousand  enchantments ;  he  had  heard  the 
voice  of  this  siren  in  his  heart,  lost  amid  dangerous 
rocks.  She  cried  to  him,  "  Come,  come,  come  !  "  She 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  him  ;  she  sang,  and  she 
cried  again  to  him,  "  Come  ! "  lie  threw  himself  on 
his  knees  ;  he  leant  his  forehead  on  the  marble  of  the 
altar;  he  pressed  his  lips  vehemently  to  the  crucifix, 
but  what  had  they  met? — the  profane  dreamer! — 
the  fresh  and  fragrant  lips  of  Manon  ! 

"  No ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  no !  I  am  not  born  to 
])ray,  but  to  love ;  the  shade  of  the  cloister  is  a  leaden 
cloak  too  heavy  for  my  shoulders.  Oh,  my  God  ! 
grant  me  a  little  sunshine  and  a  little  love !  It  is  not 
a  shroud  that  my  lieart  needs,  but  another  heart  to 
beat  against  it !  And,  as  he  said  these  words,  he  saw 
advancing  toward  him,  in  all  the  grace  and  attract- 
iveness of  her  sixteen  years,  the  fi'esh  beauty  with 
whom  he  liad  supped  at  Amiens. — "I  will  find  her 
again,"  said  he,  stretching  out  his  arms.  Saying 
these  words,  he  went  out  into  the  cloisters  of  the 
abbey.     Seeing  the  door  open,  he  departed,  without 


love's  labor  lost.  129 

notifvinir  finv  one.  A  second  time  he  had  quitted 
God  for  the  world. 

He  had  learned  during  his  first  campaign  that 
Manon  had  not  followed  any  better  than  himself  the 
wishes  of  her  parents.  A  soldier  of  Amiens  had 
informed  him  that  this  pretty  girl  was  at  Paris,  living 
upon  the  revenues  of  her  beauty.  Prevost  hastened 
to  Paris,  lie  sought  Manon  everywhere  ;  he  did  not 
find  her.  What  would  he  not  have  given  to  see  her 
again,  though  but  for  an  instant ! — this  charming 
creature,  so  seductive  and  perverse,  whom  he  had 
again  adorned  with  his  poetic  imagination,  lie  again 
entered  the  service ;  but  this  time,  thanks  to  some 
patronage,  he  left  for  the  war  with  a  rank.  It  was 
the  most  romantic,  adventurous,  and  singular  period 
of  his  life.  Some  sketches  and  some  letters  of  his 
on  his  soldier  life  have  been  preserved.  "  Four  j-ears 
were  passed  in  this  business  of  arms  ;  active  and  sus- 
ceptible to  pleasure,  I  shall  avow  in  the  words  of  M. 
de  Cand)rai,  that  wisdom  demanded  many  precau- 
tions which  escaped  me.  I  leave  it  to  be  supposed 
what  nnist  have  been  the  heart  and  sentiments  of  a 
man  between  twenty  and  twenty-five  who  wrote 
Clcvt'land  at  thirty -five  or  thirty -six." 

He  long  sought  for  Manon  in  vain  ;  Manon,  his 
ideal,  she  who  was  to  charm  his  eyes  and  speak  to 
his  heart.  Xot  l^eing  able  to  find  her,  he  sought  to 
deceive  himself:  this  one  has  her  eyes  ;  that  one,  her 
month  ;  one  smiles  like  Manon  ;  the  other  is  very 
]ii;e  her.  Pnt  it  was  no  use  for  him  to  l)liiid  and  dis- 
tract himself;  his  h(;art  wouhl  not  recognise  th(Mn  ; 
these  wretclu.'d  portraits  only  served  to  rcmiml  him 
()f  the  beloved  form,  to   niake   him   regret  her  tho 


130  THE   Ani'A)    IMIKVOST. 

more.     Ill   vain  did   lie   seek   to  deceive   liis  lieart; 
true  passion  can  not  be  deceived. 

One  day  lie  was  not  tliinkint^  of  lier,  so  far  was  lie 
carried  away  by  the  current  of  madcap  adventures; 
lie  was  snp})ing  at  a  tavern,  in  merry  company,  hi 
a  neigliborini;-  room  a  party  were  enjoj'iiig  tiiemselves 
in  a  still  noisier  manner.  lie  listened  to  the  peals  of 
laughter,  the  gay  speeches,  the  merry  songs  ;  he  rose 
from  the  table,  approached  the  door,  and  cast  a  sur- 
prised look  upon  the  animated  spectacle.  Among 
the  three  or  four  women  who  were  drinkiiiir  and 
singing,  he  saw  one  more  beautiful  and  none  the  less 
madly  excited  than  the  i-est. — "  It  is  she ! ''  he  ex- 
claimed, pale  and  trembling.  He  entered  resolutely, 
sword  in  hand,  ready  for  anything.  The  men  were 
too  drnnk  to  notice  him. — "It  is  yon,  it  is  you  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  pausing  before  her  whom  he  had  so  long 
sought  for.  The  pretty  girl  began  to  laugh  at  the 
top  of  her  voice. — "  I  know  more  than  one,"  answered 
she  ;  "  but,  as  for  you,  I  don't  know  who  you  are." — 
"  Ah,  you  do  not  know  me  !  "  said  he,  leading  her  to 
the  end  of  tlie  room  ;  "  and  yet  I  have  loved  you 
more  than  my  life  !  I  have  loved  you  at  the  foot  of 
the  cross,  on  the  field  of  battle,  everywhere  where  I 
have  borne  my  heart.  Alas !  you  do  not  recognise  me, 
and  I  weep  in  finding  you  again  !  " — "  You  weep,"  she 
murmured,  with  the  air  of  a  Avoinan  wlio  is  not  ac- 
customed to  tears. — "Ah,  now ! "  slie  continued  mourn- 
fully ;  "  you  are  not  a  cliild  now  ! — a  sword  and 
mustaches!" — "I  will  not  quit  yon,"  said  he,  press- 
ing her  to  his  heart ;  "  I  will  follow  you  everywhere, 
even  to  the  end  of  the  world  !  But  you  do  not  live 
fco  far  off ;  where  do  you  live  ?  " — fcihe  hung  down  her 


THE    BIKD    HAS    FLOWN.  131 

head,  and  answered  with  a  tender  voice,  '•  TTliere 
you  win." 

"Alas  !  "  thouglit  Provost,  "she  is  no  longer  what 
1  had  dreamed ;  bnt  what  Jiiattei-  what  she  is  ? 
I  have  fonnd  her  again,  and  I  love  her! '' — Tie  bore 
her  off  withont  any  ohstaclc.  He  passed  more  than 
a  year  with  her,  in  all  the  enchantment,  all  the  an- 
guish, of  such  a  love.  lie  had  to  watch  his  mistress 
sword  in  hand.  She  loved  li'nu,  but  she  could  not 
answer  for  herself,  for  she  had  acquired  the  habit  of 
living  without  caring  for  aught  besides  pleasure. 
Poor  Prevost  more  than  once  surprised  her  on  the 
point  of  sacrificing  him  to  his  friends.  It  was  of  no 
use ;  she  escaped  from  him.  lie  doubtless  wearied 
her  with  too  niuch  love.  Mistresses  are  like  the 
birds,  who  some  fine  morning  fly  through  the  window 
to  sing  elsewhere.  On  seeing  the  cage  empty.  Pro- 
vost threw  up  his  arms  in  despair.  "Adieu!"  said 
he,  weejung,  "adieu!  cruel  one!  naught  is  left  mo 
but  to  die."  It  was  then  that  he  went  to  the  Bene- 
dictines of  St.  Maur. — "  This  sad  denouement  l)rou"ht 
me  to  the  grave  ;  for  it  is  this  name  which  I  give  to 
the  honorable  order  among  whom  I  buried  myself,  and 
where  I  renuiined  some  time  so  effectually  dead  that 
my  friends  and  parents  were  ignorant  as  to  what  hud 
become  of  me."  J)o  not  suppose  that  he  could  forget 
his  mistress  in  his  retreat.  This  siren,  who  had  en- 
ticed him  to  more  than  one  shipwreck,  always  sang 
to  this  weak  heart,  inhabited  only  by  recollection. 
I*ious  lectures,  severe  austerities,  ecstacies  of  prayer, 
cciiild  not  detach  him  from  this  a<loied  image. 

lie  was  but  twenty-four;  beheld  lirmly  until  thirty- 
one  to  the  plank  of  safely  of  tiie  cloister,      lie  then 


132  Tin<;  aubk  prkvost. 

wrote  : — "  I  know  the  weakness  of  my  liearf.  T  ninst 
watch  unceasing!}'.  I  perceive  l)nt  too  well  of  wliiit 
I  may  again  become  capable,  if  1  should  lose  sight 
a  nuunent  of  discipline,  or  even  if  I  should  legard 
with  tlie  least  complaisance  a  certain  image  which 
but  too  often  presents  itself  to  my  mind,  and  which 
would  still  luive  but  too  much  power  to  seduce  me, 
although  it  is  lialf  effaced.  TTow  much  it  costs  to 
fight  for  the  victory  after  one  has  long  found  delight 
in  allowing  one's  self  to  be  conquered  !  " 

To  still  farther  discipline  his  heart,  he  threw  liim- 
self  into  theological  discussions  and  severe  stud}', 
lie  passed  into  all  the  establishments  of  the  order: 
at  St.  Ouen  of  Honen,  at  the  Abbey  du  Bee,  at  St. 
Germer,  at  Evreux,  finally  at  Paris,  whei-e  he  preached 
with  pi-odigious  populai-ity.  At  St.  Germain-des-Pres, 
to  distract  his  mind  a  little,  and  escape  fi'om  himself, 
at  least  by  recollection,  he  composed  his  first  ro- 
mance, the  Memoirs  of  a  Man  of  Quality.  IJis 
brethren  knew  that  he  had  passed  tlu-ough  a  stormy 
youth  ;  all  came  to  him  in  the  cloister  evenings  to 
relate  to  them  some  of  the  stories  of  his  early  life. 
It  was  a  pleasure  but  too  sweet,  which  he  could  nei- 
ther refuse  to  others  nor  to  himself.  He  was  repri- 
manded. Not  willing  to  acknowledge  to  himself  that 
lie  wished  a  third  time  to  abandon  the  cell,  the  Abbo 
Prevost  asked  to  be  transferred  to  some  less  risid 
branch  of  the  order  ;  he  wanted  a  little  libeily,  if  not 
complete  and  entire  liberty.  Kelying  on  his  request, 
he  escaped  premeditatedly  from  St.  Germain-des- 
Pres  ;  the  brief  which  he  expected  was  not  fulmi- 
nated ;  and  fearing  the  consequences  of  this  thii'd 
desertion,  which  was  mure   sei-iuiis  than   the  uthcj's. 


DRAWING    FROM    LIFE.  133 

lie  fled  to  England,  and  thence  to  Holland,  resolved 
henceforth  to  live  where  it  should  please  God,  trnst- 
inic  to  his  wit  and  his  star. 

Did  he  see  liis  mistress  again  before  his  departure  ? 
He  has  not  told  us.  We  should  think  not.  Accord- 
ing to  one  of  his  letters,  he  met  near  Havre  a  com- 
pany of  girls  of  the  town,  who  were  about  to  be 
shipped  to  America  :  this  picture  carried  hiui  l)ack, 
in  spite  of  himself,  to  his  tavern  amours.  ''  Alas  !  " 
be  exclaims,  ''  we  have  loved  moi"e  than  one  whom 
contrary  winds  have  shipwrecked  on  these  desert 
sliores." 

Arrived  at  London,  he  hastened  to  complete  the 
Memoirs  of  a  Man  of  Quality,  which  for  some 
time  furnished  him  with  the  means  of  subsistence. 
Its  success  sui-passed  all  his  hopes.  To  give  a  higher 
price  to  a  second  edition  of  this  book,  he  thought  of 
adding  to  it,  in  the  form  of  an  episode,  some  new 
history  :  he  sought  for  a  subject,  a  hero,  a  heroine, 
an  intrigue,  a  denouement.  The  image  of  his  dear 
mistress  was,  as  he  himself  lias  said,  but  half  ef- 
faced :  the  farther  he  withdrew  from  her,  the  more 
did  she  become  imbued  with  poetic  attributes;  niem- 
oi-y  has  inmmierablc  prisms,  and  shows  only  the 
diarming  side  of  love  pictures.  Here  was  a  heroine 
aliea<ly  found — an  adored  portrait  which  he  could 
still  paint  with  love.  For  a  hero  he  had  only  to  paint 
liimself.  A  little  imagination  to  color  the  truth,  and 
there  was  the  romance.  The  scene  which  he  had 
witnessed  at  Havre  had  struck'  him  ;  his  mind  inces- 
santly returned  to  it,  as  if  Ik;  1i;h1  si'cn  there  some 
form  which  was  n<»t  a  stranger  to  him  :  what  a  ter- 
rible and   |.(>L-tic  concbi.^ioii  !      I)id   ni>t  I'lvvDst  write 


134:  I'liK  A  P.!:;;  pkkvost. 

liis  romanco  uiuler  the  overpowering  influence  of  liis 
recollections?  There  is  no  nsc  of  examining  his 
books,  his  journal,  his  letters;  there  is  no  use  of  con- 
sulting his  Memoirs;  you  will  stop  with  nothing  de- 
cided on  this  delicate  point. 

"What  is  certain  is  that  lie  took  his  work  seriously ; 
he  })ut  his  heart  and  his  tears  into  it :  the  book  com- 
])lcted,  he  did  not  foi'get  it  like  the  others;  ho  loved 
it,  and  consulted  it  in  his  days  of  sorrow,  as  we  con- 
sult a  fiiend  who  knows  our  most  cherished  secret. 
Among  other  proofs  of  this  love  of  the  writer  for  his 
book,  the  criticism  mav  be  seen  which  the  Abbo 
Prevost  made  himself  on  Manoii  Lescaut  in  his  jour- 
nal, Le  Pour  et  le  Contre.  "  It  contains  nothing 
but  pictures  and  reflections — but  true  pictures  and 
natuial  sentiments.  I  say  nothing  about  the  style  ; 
it  is  Katui'C  herself  who  speaks." 

There  is  this  sad  feature  about  Paris,  that  in  the 
chances  of  her  thousand  streets  we  meet  a  thousand 
times  the  form  we  Nvish  to  escape,  and  never  the  one 
Ave  hne.  How  many  a  time  has  the  living  memorial 
of  a  spring-time  love  been  pursued  in  vain  through 
the  wilderness  of  the  great  city  ? 

In  the  preface  to  a  curious  book,  The  Continuation 
(yf  the  lUstory  of  Manon  Lescaut  and  the  Chevalier 
Desgrieux  (for  some  one,  himself  or  somebody  else, 
})erhaps  La  Clos,  has  dared  to  write  a  continuation 
to  this  masterpiece),  it  is  related  that  the  Abbe  Pre- 
vost, on  his  return  to  Paris,  after  six  years  of  exile, 
after  the  success  of  Manon  Lescant,  met  on  the  Pont 
Neuf,  on  a  windy  day  in  autumn,  his  fii'st  mistress, 
lier,  perhaps,  whom  he  had  picjusly  interred  in  the 
savannahs  of  America.     The  Abbe  Prevost  had   a 


A    LAST    SAD    LOOK.  lo5 

lady  on  his  arm ;  was  she  anotlier  and  a  calnier 
passion  ?  was  slie  a  friend  of  yesterday-,  some  fine 
lady  smitten  with  the  author  after  liaving  road  liis 
romance  ?  No  one  knows.  All  of  a  sudden,  the  first 
mistress  passes  rapidly  by,  without  recognising  him. 
Tiiinly  clothed,  especially  for  tlie  season,  she  had  all  the 
trouble  in  the  world  to  protect  herself  fi'om  the  gusts 
of  wind.  The  Abbo  Prevost  recoixnised  her  bv  her 
gait  alone,  although  years  had  come  sooner  on  her 
than  on  him  ;  pale  and  emaciated,  having  undergone, 
as  Prevost  saj^s  somewhere,  the  ravages  of  time  and 
of  love,  she  was  always  pretty,  at  least  in  her  lover's 
eves.  As  soon  as  he  i-ecoi^nised  her,  he  made  a 
movement  toward  her,  with  a  fearful  beating  of  the 
lieart.  "What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  ladv  to 
whom  he  had  given  his  arm.  lie  had  forgotten  her 
for  the  moment.  lie  checked  hinu^elf  in  despair, 
casting  a  look  of  desolation  on  this  fickle,  charming, 
and  unfortunate  girl,  who  was  flying  before  the  wind 
to  go  he  knew  not  where,  nor  perhaps  she.  AV^hat 
would  he  not  have  given  to  throw  himself  in  her 
arms,  and  know  from  herself  if  she  had  remembered 
him  durini;  this  loni;  absence! 

Why  liad  he  not  on  that  day  the  force  or  the  cour- 
age of  ins  })assion  ?  J)oubtless  he  did  not  dare  to 
thus  represent  a  family  scene  before  all  the  ])assers- 
by  of  the  Pont  Xeuf  ?  Perha])s  he  fearetl  tt)  distress 
lier  who  was  at  his  side  ;  perhaj)s  the  Imur  ot"  wistlom 
had  at  last  arrived  for  him  who  had  so  long  >tri\cii  ; 
jjerhaps,  in  fine,  he  wished  only  to  find  his  dear  mis- 
tress, the  lirbt  an<l  the  best  loved,  hut  to  K»se  iicr  im- 
mediately after,  aftitr  having  once  m<iie  opened  his 
heart  to  hei',  like  those  who  come  to  gaze  again  with 


l;)0  •nilO    AI!I!i:    J'KEVOST. 

bitter  jilerisnrc  on  tlicir  native  land,  l)ut  have  no  vsrish 
to  dwell  therein. 

AVh}'  not  pause  here  at  so  poetical  a  phase  of  this 
literary  portrait  ?  Whj'  seek  the  Abhe  Prevost  else- 
uherc  than  in  liis  immortal  work  ?  The  whole  of  the 
Abbe  Provost  is  there — all  his  genius,  all  his  heart. 
AVhy  follow  him  to  his  other  romances,  and  into  his 
other  3'ears  ?  It  M'ould  be  but  to  paint  him  less  amia- 
ble, alwaj's  writing,  but  without  love  and  without  re- 
flection. Why  tell  you  that  he  died  of  apoplexy  while 
passing  through  the  forest  of  Chantilly,  like  a  good 
citizen  who  has  acquired  a  rotund  paunch  ?  His 
destinj'  was,  however,  sti-ange,  even  to  the  end  :  a 
physician  of  the  village  gave  him  a  cut  with  a  scal- 
pel, out  of  love  to  science ;  the  Abbe  Prevost,  who 
Avas  only  in  a  lethargy,  revived  to  be  present  at  his 
own  death. 


GE:N^TIL-BEliXAIlD. 


FoRTTXE,  a  little  more  than  a  century  ago,  amnsed 
liersclf  by  taking  by  the  hand  an  amiable  poet,  who 
started  out  one  fine  morning,  penniless,  trusting  to 
chance  and  Providence,  lie  was  the  clerk  of  a 
2yroceureui\  named  Pierre  Bernard,  and  the  son  of  a 
poor  provincial  sculptor.  Voltaire,  according  to  his 
custom,  had  baptized  him  in  his  peculiar  fashion  ; 
he  sent  Bernard  an  invitation  to  supper  at  Madame 
Duchiltelet's : — 

For  Pindar's  and  Cythera's  sake, 
This  to  Geulil-Bernard  I  write, 
"  Art  of  Love,"  on  Satnrday  night, 
Witli  "Art  to  Please  '  will  supper  take. 

Bernard  was  born  at  Grenoble,  at  the  same  time 
with  Bonis  X\^.  "It  is  strange,"  lemarktHl  ^ladame 
de  l*ompa<lom-,  at  a  latei-  period,  "  that  two  lovers  of 
quality  should  have  been  born  for  me  in  the  same 
Bcjison — a  king  and  a  poet."  Bove  and  })oi'try  sur- 
pris<'d  Bernard  in  the  very  morning  of  life.  On 
leaving  college  he  passed  some  time  al  the  countrv- 

12* 


i'^O  GENTIL-BEKNAKD. 

Jiousc  of  an  niiclo ;  there  he  foniul  a  Claudine  to  his 
taste.     Slie  was  a  ]^i-ctty  peasaiit-giil, 

Wlioso  unbound  liair  in  careless  ringlets  fell, 
Crowned  with  sweet  roses,  end  the  wild  harebell. 

Slie  was  tlie  cousin  and  the  liandniaid  of  the  cure 
of  tlie  parisli ;  if  Me  ai'O  to  trust  Jjernard,  slie  dis- 
pensed witli  the  sanction  of  priest  as  well  as  of 
notary  in  her  tender  moments.  After  having  had 
an  amour  with  Claudine,  and  turned  off  some  licen- 
tious stanzas  in  her  Jionor,  Bernard  started  for  Pai-is, 
the  land  of  his  dreams,  where  he  had  to  ensconce 
himself  in  a  lawyer's  den.  The  Marquis  de  Pezay, 
having  business  in  this  office,  was  astonished  on  I'e- 
marking  the  happy  humor  of  Bernard.  He  was  theii 
a  good-looking  youngster,  of  magnificent  figure,  with 
a  face  half  jocose,  half  i-eflective,  "  the  favoi-ite  of 
gay  grisettes."  Thanks  to  the  Marquis  dc  Pezay 
(the  soldier,  not  the  poet),  he  made  rapid  advances 
in  the  M'orld,  gaining  the  good  graces  of  even  tiic 
most  fastidious.  But  in  the  midst  of  this  success, 
he  departed  for  the  Italian  wars  with  Pezay,  nnder 
the  orders  of  the  Marshal  de  Coigny,  whose  secretary 
he  became.  lie  fought  well  for  a  poet,  but  sang 
hi?  combats  badly.  On  returning  from  the  cam- 
}»aign,  he  was  received  by  Mademoiselle  Poisson,  who 
was  on  the  point  of  becoming  Madame  Lenormand 
d'Etioles  ;  according  to  her,  he  was  received  as  a  wit ; 
his  own  version  gave  him  quite  another  vocation  in 
the  house.  It  was  thei-e  that  he  met  Bernis,  that  big 
devil  of  an  abbe,  whom  the  profane  dame  had  dubbed 
her  feather- footed  pigeon,  on  account  of  his  lai'gc  feet 
and  manifold  cooiugs. 


BERNIS    AND    BERXAIJB.  139 

"Wlicn  T3ernis  and  Bernard  met,  as  the  cardinal 
expresses  it,  "  at  tlie  door  of  that  rebellious  lieait 
wliich  was  to  rule  the  world,"'  they  had  both  already 
strongly-marked  characters,  lleriiis  was  devoured 
with  pride  and  ambition  ;  Bernard,  though  lie  never 
became  a  cardinal,  was,  for  all  that,  the  wiser  of 
the  two ;  he  knew  that  glory  did  not  give  her 
favors  gratis ;  he  contented  himself  with  amours, 
with  little  songs,  and  little  suppers,  all  in  private. 
They  both  followed  their  own  course,  without  digres- 
sions and  without  obstacles,  the  one  with  joyous 
carelessness,  the  other  with  blind  ardoi",  both  meet- 
ing now  and  then,  on  account  of  a  rhyme  or  a  wom- 
an, with  Euterpe  or  with  Madame  de  Pompadour. 
"Well,  where  are  we.  Monsieur  Abbe?" — "Faith! 
I  iiave  arrived  at  the  Academy."  A  little  later. — 
'"  Here  I  am  an  ambassador."  Soon  after,  "  minister." 
Finally,  "Alas!  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  gained  ; 
they  have  made  me  cardinal.  But  how  is  it  with  you, 
Bernard!" — "Always  Gentil-Bernard,  as  Voltaire 
says." — "And  as  the  women  say." — "Ah,  you  happy 
j)0ct!  Do  you  want  to  belong  to  the  Academy  ?" — 
"Heaven  defend  me  from  it !  it  is  moie  in  your  line, 
Monsieur  Abbe." 

Bernard  was  always  true  to  his  character,  lie  A\'as 
to  the  very  last  the  French  Anacreon,  i-ousing  at  the 
sound  of  clinking  glasses  and  songs,  seeking  the  in- 
spiring bubbles  of  champagne,  but  never  the  "  bubble 
reputation."  lie  made  verses  for  the  service  of  his 
love-affairs,  but  for  no  other  ])urpose.  lleha<l  a  hor- 
ror of  ]>rinters  and  publishers  ;  it  was  of  no  use  to 
try  ;  he  would  never  consent  to  make  up  a  little  vol- 
unu!  (;f  his  small   ])o('ms.      ("oiild  wcj  find   a  poet  of 


14(^  GENTIL-BERNARD. 

SO  lunch  sense  in  onr  own  day  ?  8till,  it  is  more 
than  ever  time  that  we  should  understand  that  God 
has  pjiven  poetry  to  the  greater  part  C)f  ]ioets  as  the 
dew  to  the  Hower.  Be,  thei'efore,  the  poet  of  j'our- 
self,  of  your  love,  of  your  soi'row,  and  of  your  great- 
ness ;  sing  for  your  heart,  but  sing  for  yourself,  and 
no  one  will  complain  of  your  song.  Of  what  use  is  it 
to  nnveil  to  others  the  mysteries  of  your  soul  ?  A 
little  modesty,  if  you  please.  Do  Jiot  thus  present  to 
every  comer  your  soul  in  undress  ;  do  not  thus  pro- 
fane your  purest  love,  that  Mhich  conceals  itself  in 
the  virgin  forests  of  memory. 

Fragments  of  Bei-nard's  poem,  The  Art  of  Love 
appeared  during  his  lifetime,  hut  to  his  great  son-ow. 
The  publisher  Leronx  had  slipped  very  fi-equently 
into  the  saloon  which  Bernard  frequented,  and  fi"om 
liearing  him  read  and  re-read  it,  had  almost  com- 
mitted it  to  memory. 

Bernard  refused  all  favors  which  men  are  generally 
proud  to  obtain.  lie  would  not  become  a  member 
of  the  Academy.  lie  refused,  like  Bameau,  titles  of 
nobility. — "  Let  me  see  ;  what  can  I  do  for  you,  my 
dear  poet  ?  "  said  Madame  de  Pompadour,  on  her 
arrival  at  power.  Bernard  contented  himself  with 
kissing  the  hand  of  the  marchioness. — "  Go  !  you  are 
a  fool !  you  will  never  be  good  for  anything !  " — '• 
Madame  de  Pompadour  got  along  better  with  the 
ambition  of  Bernis,  who,  through  it,  so  well  flattered 
lier  taste. — "  Ah,  he  is  not  one  to  stop  on  the  road  ; 
he  is  not  like  you,  mourning  for  his  Claudine. 
"What  fancy  has  taken  you,  to  love  that  peasant- 
girl  ? "  — "  Love  is  the  god  of  contrasts  and  ex- 
travagances,  marchioness.     AVhcn    one   begins  with 


THE   IkLiRSHAL   DE   COIGNY.  1-il 

a  shepliei'd-girl,  one  finishes  •u-itli  a  queen.  I  began 
with  Chandine  ;  have  I  not  got  as  far  as — ''  — ''  Tlie 
Bastile  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  de  Pompadour,  with  a 
smile  of  ill-omen.  Bernard  bit  his  lip,  and  departed 
with  the  lesson.  lie  well  knew  that  in  love,  play- 
ing with  wit  is  playing  with  fiie.  He  was  ali-eady 
one  of  the  most  silent  of  lovers  about  his  good  for- 
tune, drinking  at  leisure  in  his  heart  all  the  intoxi- 
cation of  life.  But,  from  that  day,  his  heart  was  an 
abyss  of  darkness  to  the  M'orld.  He  did  not  publish 
abroad  a  single  mistress  except  his  Claudine. 

J>ernard  remained  for  ten  vears  attached  to  the 
house  of  Coigny,  where  he  was  sometimes  badly  treat- 
ed. The  marshal  on  his  death-bed  reo;retted  hav- 
iiig  abused  the  remar]^able  good  humor  and  ever- 
amiable  smile  of  the  poet.  He  had  never  allowed  him 
to  eat  at  his  table  ;  he  had  maltreated  him  time  and 
again  for  his  abstraction,  his  amours,  his  verses,  and, 
above  all,  for  his  bad  writing.  He  sent  for  him,  gave 
liim  his  proud  hand,  and  said  to  his  grandson  :  "  I  rec- 
onnnend  M.  Bernard  to  you,  who  is  worthy  of  all  your 
protection  and  of  all  3'our  friendship.  I  have  neglected 
liim  too  nnich  ;  do  not  do  the  same.'' — The  fortnne  of 
the  poet  was  bettered  somewhat  by  the  will  of  ]\[.  do 
Coigny  ;  it  im])roved  still  more  from  day  to  day.  Ber- 
nard, all  the  while  contending  against  the  favors  of 
fortune,  died  with  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  livres. 
It  was  a  trirte  alongside  of  his  friend  the  cardinal, 
wIjo  in  hi.s  best  days  had  a  revenue  of  half  a  million. 

"When  Bei-nard  was  aj»pointed  secretary-general 
of  the  dragoons,  about  174U,  Voltaire,  who  exercised 
all  the  amenities  of  literature  toward  all  ])oets  and 
men  of  letters  on  a  small  scale,  wrote  to  him  as  fol- 


142  OENTIL-BERNARD. 

lows :  "  So  the  secrotarv  of  love  is  secretary  of 
dniixooiis !  Our  destiny,  my  detir  friend,  is  more 
agi'oeable  than  that  of  Ovid  ;  so,  too,  your  Ait  of 
Love  seems  to  me  better  than  his.  You  say  that  the 
fortune  of  M.  de  Coigny  [the  grandson  of  the  mar- 
shal] has  wings  ;  see,  then,  how  all  the  winged  gods 
combine  to  favor  you.  But  if  his  foi'tune  has  wingiJ, 
yours  has  eyes  ;  we  will  no  longer  call  her  blind, 
since  she  takes  such  good  care  of  you.  Ileniembcr 
me  in  the  midst  of  your  laurels  and  myrtles." — Ber- 
nard was  already  called  the  French  Ovid,  on  account 
of  his  Art  of  Love  and  for  some  charming  poems, 
such  as  the  epistle  to  Clandine.  At  that  time,  peo- 
ple doted  on  everything ;  they  doted  on  Bernard. 
All  the  women  had  learned  ihis  epistle  to  Clandine 
from  the  mouth  of  Bernard. — "Ah,  poet,"  said  Ma- 
dame Forbin  to  him  one  day  (if  we  may  believe 
Bachaumont),  "I  know  your  epistle  by  heart;  but 
M'hat  can  I  do  to  make  your  heart  forget  it  ? " — 
They  \vere  thus  jealous  of  Clandine  ;  but  they  were 
not  jealous  of  Celiante,  of  Zelie,  or  of  any  other  cele- 
brated rival.  This  epistle  to  Clandine,  which  com- 
niences  like  a  tale  of  La  Fontaine's,  tin-ns  by  degrees 
into  an  elegy.  The  poet,  after  having  listened  to  the 
most-gay  and  most  profane  I'ecollcctions  of  love,  ends 
by  abandoning  hinjself  to  the  inspii'ations  of  his  heart. 
As  this  epistle  is  the  best  page  in  the  history  of  Ber- 
nai'd,  I  detach  a  few  lines,  not  indiscriminately,  from 
it: 

Is  she  tlio  less  fho  child  of  morn 
For  blooming  in  a  iKirron  field  ? 
My  love's  the  meadow's  fairest  tlower. 
There  in  \i\'j  youth  I  saw  Clandine, 
And,  seeing  hor,  all  loves  were  seen. 


THE   ART    or   LOVE.  143 

Ilere  the  poet  relates,  in  the  taste  of  the  time,  how 
they  intoxicated  the  good  curate,  in  order  to  intoxi- 
cate themselves  at  their  ease  ^ith  the  profane  cup. 

How  many  a  kiss,  liow  many  a  vow  ! 
'Twere  vain  to  count  them,  well  you  know. 
The  dawn  sees  fewer  flowers  expand. 

At  last  the  poet  comes  to  hid  Clandine  adieu  :  the 
heart  suffocated  with  pleasure,  revives  a  little  under 
a  pure  ray  of  love  : — 

I  leave  thee  to  thine  idle  hours, 

When  from  thy  lonely  cot  thou'lt  see 

The  woods  and  streams,  the  lawns  and  flowers, 

That  heard  my  youthful  vows  to  thee. 

Claudine,  wilt  thou  be  true  to  me  ? 

These  last  verses  show  the  same  tender  and  poetic 
sentiment  which  inspired  Andre  Chenier.  We  find 
in  them  the  lirst  trace  of  tliat  lachrymose  vein  which  we 
have  too  nmch  cultivated  since.  Out  of  these  four 
verses,  we  should  at  the  present  day  make  eighty. 
AVe  should,  perhaps,  gain  some  rays  of  the  setting 
sun,  a  bit  of  skv,  a  melancholv  star.  Bernard  is  too 
firmly  rooted  to  the  earth  to  thiidv  of  that :  he  seeks 
lieaven  only  in  his  mistress's  eyes. 

The  first  verses  of  \\\e  Art  of  Love  also  trace  in 
vague  outline  the  life  of  Gcntil-])eriiard.  It  is  well 
understood,  that  to  comprehend  the  history  of  a  poet 
we  must  read  and  re-read  his  verses  rather  than  his 
hiogra])hy,  which  only  relates  to  the  extei-nals  of  his 
life.  In  his  verses,  the  poet  here  and  there  lets  out 
the  truth  ;  he  uncoiisciou.sly  reveals  himself;  he  scat- 
ters without  thinking,  all  the  treasures  of  memory. 


144  GKN'in.-l!i;i;.\AIMt. 

like  tlic  painter  wlio  is  surprised  to  find  that  lie  has 
given  the  eyes  or  the  mouth  of  his  mistress  to  8t. 
Cecilia  or  Joan  of  Arc,  Sec  these  first  vei'ses  of  the 
Art  of  Love : 

Coigiiy,  I'vo  soon,  and  victory,  and  war  ; 
But  things  likt;  those  transcon<l  my  power  far. 
I've  seen  the  court,  I've  passed  my  spring  away. 
Mute  at  the  feet  of  idols  of  the  day. 
Bacchus  I've  seen,  nor  made  liis  joys  my  song  ; 
Nor  to  Apollo  owned  submission  long. 
Daphne  I've  seen ;  my  song  shall  bo  of  love  ! 

To  comprehend  how  Gentil-Bernard  understood  love, 
it  is  necessary  to  read  his  entire  poem.  This  Art  of 
Love  is  rather  the  Art  not  to  Love,  or,  still  more,  the 
Art  to  Love  no  more.  Oljmpia  and  Cj'thera,  Venus 
and  her  nymphs,  the  whole  mythological  machinery 
is  there,  in  action,  for  the  last  time.  Unfortunately 
for  love,  the  most  apparent  symbol  of  the  ])oem  is  the 
girdle  of  Venus.  Gentil-Bernard,  who  is  scarcely  a 
Christian,  sees  love  nowhere  else.  But  of  what  use 
is  the  A7't  of  Love,  as  if  there  was  a  school  of  love  ? 
Love  is  a  pure  dew  Avhich  descends  from  heaven  upon 
our  hearts,  when  it  pleases  God  ;  love  is,  thei*efore, 
a  surprise,  a  divination,  an  extempore  science.  A 
woman  tells  more  about  it  with  a  look  or  a  smile  than 
all  the  Ovids  and  Gentil-Bernards  in  the  world. 

Madame  de  Pompadour,  who,  in  spite  of  herself, 
felt  a  secret  liking  for  Bernard,  succeeded  in  exiling 
him  a  little  way  from  Paris.  She  appointed  him 
librarian  of  the  chateau  de  Clioisy,  where  she  had  a 
charming  little  house  built  for  him,  which  was  called 
by  the  poets  of  the  time  the  Parnassus  of  the  French 
Anacreon.     Bernard,  who  was   never   alone   in    his 


CHOisr.  145 

exile,  resigned  liiinself  to  it  with  very  g-  >  /]  grace. 
Lonis  XV.  rarely  entered  this  library,  or  Bernard 
either. — "  AVhat  should  I  do  among  all  those  dead 
men?"  he  said  gavlv  to  his  friends.  One  dav  he 
wrote  to  Yoltaire :  "Send,  therefore,  to  the  poor 
grave-digger  of  Choisy  your  beautiful  poem  with  the 
iliustratiuns.  I  keep  a  grave  always  open ;  but  these 
dead  people  will  return  again  like  spirits." 

Louis  XY.  lancied  Bernajd  by  fits  and  starts ;  he 
always  received  him  with  a  good  grace,  and  had  no 
objection  to  hearing  his  verses ;  but  Bernard  did  not 
like  Louis  XV.  so  near  by.  If  we  may  believe  a  letter 
of  Bertin,  the  king  condescended  to  be  jealous  of  the 
poet  —  in  respect  \o  love,  be  it  understood.  Madame 
de  Pompadour  went  sometimes  to  forget,  at  the  side 
of  Bernard,  the  king,  the  Jesuits,  and  the  Parliament. 
In  h'xiJonrneyto  Burgundy^  Bertin,  in  passing  tiie 
Chateau  de  Choisy,  poetically  recalls  the  pleasant 
pastin^-.':  of  Gentil-Bernard  : — 

'Twas  there,  surrounded  by  the  loves, 

Whf)se  minister  he  was  so  long; 

He  turned  <>],.;  Ovid's  art  to  song. 

At  eve  hi-  dor.ned  his  ivy  crown  ; 

And  all  ihi    la^   rs  uf  the  day 

His  pupil,  wl.cn  her  task  was  done. 

With  oiir  sweet  kiss  v/oul.1  wel'  repay. 

The  ]iupil  v.Ts  sometime.]  Madame  do  Pompadour* 
Imt  wl.-en  s'le  was  absent,  CTcritil-BoiTiard  had  no 
time  to  com])lain.  And  besides,  as  liis  wines  were 
worthy  of  his  wit,  he  had  his  friends  continually 
chatting  about  him.  At  C'hoisy,  as  at  Paris,  the 
librarian  brfaki'-istjd.  dined,  and  supi)ed  heartily 
every  day,  *Aliich  i'  narvellous  for  a  poet. 

1 .'; 


146  NV;xiTIL-BRRNAED. 

"NVlu :.  Bacclnis  anvl  Cui)i(l  (pardon  inc  for  return- 
iiii;  to  tlieso  old  idols ;  hut  by  dint  of  brushing  oif  'he 
dust  which  covers  them.  I  am  cauii'ht  bv  them  in  spite 
of  my.-o^:  )  —  when  Bacchus  and  Cu]>id  gav^,  Gentri- 
l^ernard  timo.  to  breathe,  he  recalled  the  startled 
muses.  To  this  we  owe  tliose  Anacreontic  odes, 
gallant  epistles,  and  licoatious  fantasies,  which  tV-) 
cuniiing  poet  cared  not  to  have  printed,  knowing 
well  that  the-  woidd  be  all  imprinted  on  the  heart, 
under  the  cover  of  the  screi^n. 

All  these  poems,  by  good  right  styled  fugitive,  are 
far  from  being  original  ivith  Gentil-Bernard,  who  was 
little  more  than  an  agreeable  copyist  of  the  songs  of 
his  predecessors.  Innumerable  poets  had,  before  him 
passed  into  the  same  pretty  garden,  to  gather  there 
these  vmhallowed  roses.  Without  si)eaking  of  those 
older  and  better  known,  iiernard  has  some  resem- 
blance to  Sannazar,  the  king  of  the  sonnet  and  the 
canzone^  the  charming  sacred  and  profane  poet; 
to  Pontanus,  the  poet  of  the  graces ;  Francini, 
who  sang  G3  little  bvit  who  sang  so  well ;  Strozzi,  the 
sweet  eleg'-it;  Buchanan,  the  vagabond,  who  died 
weary  of  life,  although  he  had  loved  ;  in  fine,  to 
some  of  the  pleaJng  FrencL  poets  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

In  the  v:^:i?..T.e  of  his  works,  Gentil-Bernard  nar- 
rates almost  all  the  fickle  changes  of  his  lio.-.r*. 
Sometimes  ho  sinews  his  hamlet : — 


"O" 


&■ 


Naught  can  outshine 
This  cot  of  mint-.. 
Landscape  so  l)right 
Would  give  delight 
K'en  to  VVatteau  ! 


MADAME    DE  LONGPKE.  147 

Sometimes  he  laments  being  at  court.  He  i,-^  almost 
the  only  poet  of  his  time  "who  has  not  siuig-  the 
laurels  or  the  virtues  of  the  king.  lie  sang  Love, 
who  is  tiie  kino;  of  kiuirs.  Louis  XV.  tlwefurc, 
found  him  more  witty  than  all  the  otliers.  Most  gene 
rally  Bernard  warbled  over  the  good  gi-aces  of  Olyra- 
pia,  the  absence  of  Themyra,  the  kisses  of  Galatea, 
the  Trianon  of  Cythera, Pleasure,  tlie  roses  of  Aurora 
and  Eirlea.  Once  onlv  did  the  tears  of  the  divine 
sentiment  in  his  heart  prevail  over  all  these  wanton 
papsi<tus;  he  had  seen  Bathilda,  that  is  to  say, 
Madame  de  L'»ngpre,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  a 
convent,  tu  lament  fur  ii  faithless  lover: — 

A  pure  and  holy  (lame  I  feci, 

That  makes  me  worthy  of  the  shrine 

Where  I  have  boldly  dared  to  kneel. 

A   worldly  fire  consumed  my  heart, 

My   bark  was  on  a  dangerous  sea, 

My  very  tastes  were  scarcely  free 

Inveigled  by  the  siren's  art, 

To-day  a  change  has  o'er  me  come ; 

My  bark  has  touched  on  other  ground. 

Which,  led  by  voice  of  doves,  I've  found. 

The  wlmle  of  this  epistle  is  charming.  Love  descends 
too  quickly  from  the  celestial  regions,  which,  however, 
ne  usually  d<>es  when  he  follows  ]>ernard.  At  tlie 
coiinnencement,  one  thiidvS  that  he  is  rising  to  the 
ccstacies  <>f  the  archangels;  "but,"  exclaims  the 
])<>et,  "  we  shall  always  have  time  t(j  sigh  up  there." 
—  Imaires  full  of  ''race  and  boldness  are  found  in 
this  c])istle,  which  appear  as  if  t]>ey  had  been  taken 
from  the  Song  of  Songs, 

Witliin  iho  caplive  roses'  bower, 

'I'lie  'jiie  which  gave  my  Ik  art  its  wound, 


148  GENTIL-BEltNARD, 

Amid  n  thorny  bush  is  found, 

Wliirh   muirds  tlio  sud  coin|)laiiiin^  flower. 

Uo'iKird  at  a  ri|)i'r  uoc  was  struck  with  tlio  bcauti 
fill  l>Oi  trv  (»f  the  Bihle.  lie  translated  Solomon  tbi 
the  anuisenient  of  INFadame  de  l*oni])adonr.  In  this 
undcrtakini;'  he  was  ha])]iier  than  A'i)ltaii-e;  he  liad 
tlie  art  of  repyxlueini;',  with  all  thrir  oriental  grace, 
the  charming  images  of  the  song  and  of  \oliiptnous 
pleasure.  The  huining  wind  which  swept  over  the 
harp  of  Solomon  has  touched  even  tlie  lyre  of  Gentil- 
r>ei-nard.  Of  this  entire  book  of  oriental  ])oems,  hut 
two  dialogues  have  come  down  to  us,  Etna  and 
Atnintha.  Gentil-Bernard  valued  this  hook  highly 
if  he  ever  valued  anything;  hut  the  poor  poet  had 
a  devout  niece  for  liis  heir,  who  burnt  everything  as  a 
sacritice,  except  rhe  will, 

Gentil-Bernard  was  extinguished,  with  his  glory, 
some  years  before  his  death.  lie  awoke,  a  madman, 
in  July,  1770,  but  he  had  the  happiness  not  to  l)e  con- 
scious of  it,  lie  lived  for  some  years  in  this  condition, 
under  the  care  of  his  niece.  Tlie  cause  of  this  almost- 
rational  madness,  so  calm  and  gentle  was  it,  had  made 
some  noise  in  the  world.  The  Chevalier  du  Chatellux 
has  remarked,  that  if  all  the  men  attributed  it  to  the 
passion  of  the  poet  for  Olympias  and  Coi'innas,  tlie 
women,  on  the  other  hand,  ascribed  it  solely  to  his 
devotion  to  go(,)d  wine. — "This  remark  is  not  to  be 
despised,"  says  Grimm.  Must  we  pity  Gentil-Ber- 
nard? AVhat  mattered,  after  all,  this  delirium?  This 
lialf-sleep  of  the  intelligence  is  the  preface  to  death. 
Gleams  of  intellect  returned  to  him  at  long  inteivals. 
Thus,  one  evening  that  he  was  present  at  a  rejiresent- 
ation  of  hir-  opera ;  he  asked  his  neighbor  the  name 


POETS    OF    THE    XYIIITll    CENTUKY.  149 

of  tlic  piece  and  of  tlie  actress. — '■''Castor  a  i~  Pnllh'-^.y 
and  " Mademoiselle  Arnoiild." — "Ah I"  lie exL!;aiT>:u, 
"niy  glory  and  my  love." — One  night,  when  he  wae 
eallini;  Clandine,  liis  niece  told  him  he  wc.s  dreaininar.' 
— '"All,  yes,"  said  he,  "  for  I  have  seen  happiness." 

He  died  without  fear  and  without  repi-cach — 
Ilappy  poet.  — without  care  about  glory  and  without 
care  about  death. 

IIa\e  we  n(.)t  treated  with  too  much  contempt  the 
love-i><»ets  of  the  cii^hteentli  centurv?  Those  lituTiT 
free-thinkers  who  admij-e  the  vigorous  and  ilowbig, 
laugli  at  all  this  triMip  of  pretty  po..!.  ,  who  co>>t.d 
in  the  luxuriant  i)aths  (»f  Paphos  arr.  'jy  /'I'.ra,  humbly 
reclining  at  the  f<»ot  of  Parnassus,  wIjI.'  '  they  took  good 
care  not  to  scale.  Xow,  at  tiie  prei-uit  time,  with 
the  excei>ti(>n  of  three  or  tom-  poets,  who  have  some 
heart  and  s<»ul,  what  have  all  these  '^i.-cased  Chat- 
tertons  done  for  us?  Gentil-Bernard  e?.i\;-  of  Paphos, 
Cy}»rus,  Madame  de  Pomjia'V  -iv,  Ovid,  ti;3  Graces, 
A  nacrct  )n,  tiie  1«  (cks  of  Dap'  u  , "';« /.aTids  or  Themyra, 
the  lijts  of  Chiudine.  All  i) 'r  has  passed  away  as 
(piickly  as  bou<pR;ts  jducked  under  tiie  sun's  ra,ys;  but 
tell  me  what  do  (»ur  lugubrious  geniuBCS  sing  to  their 
fair  ones?  Is  it  lo\e,  beauty,  grace,  )  y.^th  ?  Tliey 
blng,  that  is  to  say,  they  bewail  over,  the  bitterness 
of  life  ;  tliey  wee})  for  tlieir  vanished  i!ki.si(»ns  :  they 
gritan  over  the  rough  road  f)f  life;  in  fiue,  instead  of 
fiinging  of  love,  it  may  be  said  that  they  sing  of 
death.  Not  a  flash  of  gayety  in  these  stormy  hearts; 
not  a  ray  of  joy  in  these  dark  souls!  Yt)u  might, 
lu'i-e  and  there,  sec  a  tolerably-pretty  blue  eye,  if  a 
tear  «lid  n<»t  rise  t<i  moisten  it,  but  this  tear  which 
veils  the  Mne  eve  is  poetry. 

lii* 


loU  GENTIL-BEKNAKD. 

Ir  tl:!K  sliglltj/;r^s'i'rZ,  I  luivc  drawn  Gentil-Bernanl, 
orscit»£thing  like  lihn,  aniied  and  equipped.  I  liavo 
neglected  many  details,  a  madrigal  licre,  a  good 
cajing  there.  I  ought,  perhajis,  to  liavc  told  you 
that  his  inspii-ation  Avas  rebellious,  and  tliat  he  would 
much  rather  have  caught  a  rose  or  a  kiss  than  a 
rhyuie ;  that,  in  spite  of  his  hci-culean  frame,  he 
dressed  in  a  finical  style,  loving  triidcets  above  eveiy- 
thing.  Fhially,  I  have  shoM'u  you  the  poet ;  if  you 
love  him,  you  will  go  farther;  his  works  arc  exposed 
to  the  insults  of  the  Quais.  There  is  still  in  existence, 
as  if  by  miracle,  a  pretty  little  London  edition,  clothed 
In  morocco ;  do  not  fail  to  get  a  copy,  for  that  one, 
which  is  very  choice,  doubtless  has  passed  through  the 
delicate  hands  of  some  pretty  marchioness  of  1780. 
Do  not  foi-get  to  buy  this  little  book,  which  is  one  of 
the  last  memorials  of  the  gallantries  of  France ;  give 
a  little  space  in  your  library — your  cemetery,  as 
Gentil-Bernard  said  —  to  this  precious  volume,  which 
still  preserves  the  fragrant  dust  of  the  boudoirs.  On 
opening  this  graceful  volume,  you  will  inhale  an  an- 
tiquated odor  of  this  poor  eighteenth  century,  which 
ended  so  badly ;  you  will  see  again  on  the  frontispiece 
all  the  pretty  Cupids  of  Cythera,  sharpening  their 
MiTOws  p.ii'l  f'l^h  glances ;  you  will  touch  with  respect 
the  littiC  blue  ribbon  marking  the  most  amorous  page ; 
in  line,  yon  will  r-^e  hovering  around  you  the  shadow 
of  that  sweet  smile,  which  for  fifty  years  hung  on  all 
the  pretty  mouths;  that  enchanting  smile  which  tied 
for  ever  v  ith  the  so\u  of  Queen  Marie-Antoinette. 


FLOJtlAN. 


Is  it  not  a  strange  sight,  that  of  a  captain  of  dra^ 
gocjns,  singing  tenderly  and  chastely  the  loves  of 
shepherdesses  in  the  midst  of  the  society  of  philoso- 
l)hei's  without  faith,  poets  without  a  muse,  abbes  with- 
out a  God,  on  the  eve  of  1793  ?  Tlie  idyl  flourishes 
ami<l  ruins  —  what  would  it  be  good  for  elsewhere? 
When  Nature  sings,  the  poet  listens ;  wlien  all  is 

NoTK.  There  are  here  ami  there  agreeable  poi  t."  to  be  found,  whom 
criticism,  fithcr  through  contempt  or  forgetfulnees,  has  allowed  to  slum 
ber  too  Ioiik  l>y  the  side  of  the  literary  highway.  It  is  a  chance  if  some 
syin|»atlu'tic  souls  have  raised  i  modest  tombstone  to  these  poor  for- 
saken, to  declare  in  few  words  liieir  virtues  and  their  works.  It  has 
often  happened  that  they  hav.  found  readers  if  not  critics.  'I'hus 
Florian,  lianished  with  some  injustice  from  the  field  of  letters,  has 
found  innumiT:dile  places  of  refuge.  He  has  been  translated  into  all 
languages.  There  is  not  a  village  in  France  which  does  not  con- 
lain  some  fragments  of  his  works.  His  books  are  understood  by 
cvervbody,  like  ail  books  which  speak  to  the  heart.  Last  year  on  the 
s^:i(*hi«re  at  Norniandv,  while  a  beating  rain  compelled  me  to  remain 
in  the  small  tavern  of  a  fisherman,  I  discovered  on  the  chimney-piece, 
N linn  l'oiiipiliu.1,  whidi  served  to  divert  my  attention  a  little  from 
the  bail  weather.  1  Was  ind<dcntly  abandoning  myself  to  the  charm 
of  the  nympli  Fgeria,  when  an  old  sailor  who  was  smoking  and 
drinking  on  the  opjMisite  side  of  the  fire,  began  ti>  talk  to  nie  about 
tlie  book  in  a  thundering  voice.  He  had  read  it  with  enthusiasm  in 
the  most  tender  years  of  his  youth;  now  that  old  age  had  come  he 
put  his  spectacles  astride  his  no.se  to  read  it  still. 


152  FLORIAN. 

silent,  tlic  slio})lior(l  resumes  liis  liantboy  or  his  song 
Yir<;-il  did  not  sing  until  the  Italian  land  was  be- 
dewed with  blood  and  teai-s.  Did  Floi'ian  wish  to 
oj)pose  the  impurity  and  irreligion  of  his  age  by 
celebrating  the  palmy  days  of  innocence  ?  Did  he 
hope  to  bring  a  blush  to  the  cheeks  of  these  dissolute 
nobles,  and  these  sinning  marchionesses,  by  the  art- 
less picture  of  the  loves  of  the  golden  age  ?  No. 
Florian  sung  as  a  po<vt,  without  knowing  in  what 
country  and  for  Avhat  pe(.)ple ;  he  in\'oked  the  recol- 
lections of  his  youth,  and  the  shades  of  his  dearly- 
ioved  books  ;  he  sought  in  his  heart  the  fountain?,  of 
tenderness,  and  in  his  imagination  idyls  full  blown. 
He  sang  far  from  the  world  like  a  solitary  shepherd. 
The  principal  charm  of  his  romances  is  tliat  they 
transport  us  far  from  the  world  :  almost  from  the 
commencement  we  travel  on  the  win<>:s  of  the  wind 
toward  unknowu  lands.  Soon  in  the  midst  of  a  vast 
solitude,  whsre  we  leave  here  and  there  all  our  rec- 
ollections, we  hear  the  sound  of  a  pipe  or  a  bag- 
pipe, we  inhale  the  distant  fragrance  of  the  flowering 
meadows.  Soon  the  wind  u-  -n  which  we  are  borne 
drives  away  the  mornin:;mist.  We  discover  abcautiful 
valley,  clothed  with  fresh  venlure,  where  iiretty  white 
sheep,  decorated  with  rose-colored  ribl)ons,  are  scat- 
tered about.  We  must  admit  that  the  si)ell  is  so  strong, 
that  we  lose  all  knowledge  of  the  past.  The  past  flies 
us  like  a  confused  ima<>;e  :  we  even  go  so  far  as  to  ima- 
gine  that  formerly,  in  a  better  time,  we  lived  among 
these  shepherds,  these  shepherdesses,  and  these  sheep. 
And  we  are  as  happy  as  children.  The  most  per- 
verted among  us  are  delighted  with  this  enchanted 
existence,  which  passes  so  softly  in  this  solitaiy  val- 


ms    FAMILY.  153 

ley,  shiided  by  nistling  elms.  Souls,  tlie  deepest 
sunk  in  evil,  at  the  sight  of  these  innocent  pleasures,, 
again  find  Avithin  themselves  the  spring  of  their 
youth,  lung  since  dried  up.  There  is  not  an  abaii 
doned  girl  who  does  not  feel  she  is  somewhat  of  a 
shepherdess,  and  shed  a  sweet  tear,  forgotten  in  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  a  sweet  tear  of  the  repentant 
Magdalen,  at  the  sight  of  Estelle  and  Galatea,  so 
])eautiful  from  their  purity,  so  happy  from  thei" 
innocence. 

Tlianks  to  his  god-mother,  Florian  was  named 
Jean-Pierre — just  the  name  for  a  shepherd  ;  thanks 
to  his  father,  he  was  named  Claris  de  Florian — just 
the  name  for  a  bucolic  poet.  lie  came  into  the  world 
in  a  poetty  chateau  of  Basses-Cevennes,  built  by  his 
grandfa tiler's  vanity  in  s})itc  of  the  patrinonial  for- 
tune. He  came  into  the  w^orld  in  1755,  in  the 
spring,  as  you  may  well  suppose.  The  spring  which 
111'  has  sung  so  often,  was  ever  his  best  season.  He 
gathered  his  first  roses  and  his  first  laurels  in  the 
fspring.  Death,  however,  came  to  seize  him  in  the 
autumn  —  Init  death  was  mistaken  that  time,  or 
i-ather  death  came  appropriately  in  the  autumn.  To 
die  in  the  autumn,  when  the  swallows  depart  in 
searcli  'tf  better  countries,  when  the  flowers  give  out 
their  last  fVagrance,  when  the  yellow  leaves  strew 
tlie  deserted  ])ath  —  is  not  that  the  last  dream  of  the 
makers  of  eclogues? 

The  Fiorians  had  lieen  distinguished  in  various 
ways,  but  especially  in  arms.  This  very  family 
count('(l  iiinong  its  ranks  several  brave  captains,  a 
icarni' 1  hisho]),  and  innuinerabk  canons.  The 
t'atjicr  itl'  i.ur  story-ti'llci'  ivposi'd    from  thr   liitigiies 


154  FLOEIAN. 

of  his  ancestors.  He  liad  married  by  chance,  as  it 
always  liappens,  a  pretty  Castiliaii,  Gilletta  de  Sal- 
gues ;  and  for  him  and  for  her  the  days  passed  away 
in  the  indolence  of  country  life.  The  grandfather  of 
Florian,  not  having  a  chateau  in  his  head  like  the 
poet's,  the  warriors,  and  the  canons,  took  the  notion  to 
build  one  on  his  ground,  and  in  this  work  had  ex- 
pended his  last  crown,  consoling  himself  with  the 
idea  that  his  brothers  the  canons  would  do  him  the 
favor  to  die  and  becpieath  him  their  i)roperty  —  but 
in  those  times  canons  were  in  no  hurry  to  die.  Be- 
sides the  great  uncles  of  Florian,  wishing  to  appease, 
by  a  pious  work,  the  Heaven  which  they  had 
so  many  times  oflended,  in  dying  constituted  God 
and  his  saints  their  sole  legatees. 

Florian's  education  w^as  nedeeted.  A  little  Latin, 
less  Greek,  some  scraps  of  theology,  and  you  have  it 
all.  Without  Voltaire,  who  became  his  master  at 
eleven,  Kature  would  have  done  the  rest.  Flo- 
rian was  well  prepared  to  become  a  man  of  Nature^ 
as  he  was  afterward  called,  like  Jean  Jacques.  lie 
passed  through  infancy  in  the  midst  of  rural  occupa- 
tions. The  first  sight  which  charmed  him  was  a 
sunset.  The  theatre  was  a  beautiful  valley  of  Lau- 
guedoc,  bordered  by  the  Cevennes.  Innumerable 
scenes  animated  this  theatre.  Now  it  was  the  herds- 
man driving  his  cows  to  the  meadow — now  the 
shepherd  leading  his  sheep  to  water — the  shep- 
herdess going  to  the  fields  with  her  sickle,  or  glean- 
ing after  the  harvest ;  and  then  the  dances  under 
the  elm,  and  the  hunters  coursing  over  the  fields, 
and  the  sports  of  the  shepherdesses.  lie  was  an  as- 
Giduous  observer  of  all  the  changes  of  Nature  —  he 


HIS    yOUTH.  15 


f. 


followed  tlie  seasons  in  all  their  caprices.     At  ten  lie 
sauntered  alone  like  a  monk  of  La  Trappe,  reading 
witli  passionate  delight  the  first  chapters  of  Telema- 
chus,  adoring  Calvpso  and  all  the  Nymphs  together. 
without  speaking  of  the  chambermaid  of  the  chateau, 
whom,  said  Yoltaire,  it  was  necessary  to  turn  out  of 
doors   on   account   of  him,  and  in  spite  of  him  — 
dreaming  of  a  distant  isle,  to  people  it  with  all  the 
blond  fairies  of  his  young  imagination.     Never  did 
scholar  play  truant  better.    There  was  a  little  spring 
about  half  a  league  from  the  chateau,  which  flowed 
from  the  foot  of  the  mountain  over  a  bed  of  pebbles, 
shaded  by  some  old  cherry-trees,  where  he  went 
more  than  a  tlnjusand  times  to  forget  his  Greek  and 
Latin  lessons  in  its  murmur.     As  you  see,  the  idle 
revery  which  makes  good  and  bad  poets,  seized  Flo- 
rian   in   the   very  morning  of  life.     In  a  letter  to 
Ducis,   he  relates  that  in    the  happy  days  of  the 
past,  he  was  not  so  much  absorbed  by  the  ecstacies 
)f  contemplation  as  not  to  perceive,  during  a  certain 
month  of  June,  that  the  cherry-trees  bore  cherries ; 
he  avows  even,  with  his  accustomed  candor,  that  he 
gathered  without  reinoi-se  all  that  he  could  get  at. 
St.  Augustine  did  not  do  otherwise  at  twelve.     You 
will  remember  tlie  pears  stolen  by  the  future  bishop 
of  IIipj)ona. — Florian  did  not  confine  himself  in  the 
study  of  Nature  and  her  fruits  to  the  spring  by  the 
clierry-trees.     lie  poetically  followed  the  course  of 
tlie  brook  —  lie  mysteriously  lost  himself  in  the  lab- 
yrinth di'  the  grove.     If  he  met  a  gleaner  moved  by 
Rvrnjiathy,  he  gleaned  with  her.     Jf  he  met  a  herds- 
>nan,  he  pulled  the   ribbons  out  of  his  slioes  to  tie 
rMiiiid  Ihi'  nccl:  <»f  tlic  pi'ottiest  and   whiti'st  of  tlie 


156  FLORIAN. 

ltinil)s.  People  have  their  reasons  f<-r  becoiniiig  pas 
toral  poets.  Tims  in  this  tcnvlei-  a;j;(;,  when  the  rriir- 
701'  of  the  soul  ardently  ])reserves  all  impressions, 
even  the  most  coniused,  Florian  stored  away  in  his 
imai^ination  these  scenes  of  Mature  which  he  de- 
scribed at  a  later  pei'iod,  by  di])pin<^  into  the  book 
of  memory.  The  pretty  white  slieep  yon  have  seen 
in  Kstelle ;  in  an  eclogue  he  has  called  the  gleaner 
Ruth. 

In  relating  to  yon  this  bucolic  infancy  of  Florian, 
I  have  no  intention  of  making  a  pastoral  romance. 
I  pass  over  even  a  good  dozen  of  idyls,  I  give  you 
only  the  heads  of  the  chapters.  I  forget  the  moon- 
lights, the  rosy-fingered  auroras,  the  magnificent 
evening  storms.  Besides,  I  have  not  spoken  to  you 
of  the  chivalric  instincts  of  this  child  who  was  con- 
nected with  Spain  by  his  mother.  Gilletta  sang  to 
her  dear  Jean-Pierre  the  legends  of  her  land  :  the 
Ines  of  Camoens,  Ximena  the  faithfid.  Even  wliil", 
listening  to  his  mother,  Jean-Pierre  lisped  theSpai- 
isii  tongue,  and  dj-eamed  of  becoming  a  super]> 
chevalier,  armed  for  the  defence  of  his  country,  and 
the  honor  of  his  lady.  Without  thinking  of  it,  Gil- 
letta begins  this  grotesque  epic  which  is  called  Gon- 
salvo  de  Cordova.  Gilletta  died  ;  but  Florian  fum- 
bled over  the  Spanish  poets  as  if  in  search  of  his 
mother's  shade. 

Voltaire  had  married  one  of  his  nieces  to  one  of 
Florian's  uncles.  Thanks  to  this  uncle,  who  foresaw 
the  approaching  poverty  of  the  Castellan,  Jean- 
Pierre  was  received  by  Voltaire  as  a  scholar.  He 
was  eleyen  yeai"s  old  wben  he  entered  the  court  of 
Feruey,  <»r  rather  tJie  Tlicha'aJ  ^A  t!ie  patriarch,  us 


AT    FKRNET.  167 

the  pliilosopliers  called  it.  Yoltaire  was  |>l:uniig 
cliess  with  Father  Adam.  He  was  expendiug  liis 
forces  on  little  verses,  little  letters,  and  little  stories, 
as  a  strnirirle  ao-ainst  oblivion.  Putlier  Adam  con- 
demned  yonng  Florian  to  the  composition  of  them-^s, 
and  as  the  latter  was  often  puzzled  to  put  in  Latin,  whrt 
lie  did  not  imderstand  very  well  in  French,  he  went 
slvlv  to  Yoltaire  to  beg  him  to  construe  his  seiitevce. 
A^>l.aire  construed  the  sentence  so  good-naturedly 
that  he  went  bacV  thinking  that  he  had  made  it 
Iiimst'lf.  Yoltaire  was  amused  with  Jean-Pierre'o 
candor — he  ]tlayo  1  truant  with  his  scholar.  Ho 
awakened  in  him  gayety  and  wit.  He  somewhat 
changed  the  man  of  Nature.  From  the  date  of  his 
sojourn  at  Ferney,  Florian  dreamed  somewhat  less, 
he  sported  somewhat  more:  he  even  followed  so  well 
the  lessons  of  his  master,  that  he  imitated  even  the 
satirical  -mile  of  the  old  philosopher.  "  That  is  right," 
Kiid  'v'oltaire,  "  assume  the  appearance  of  having 
wit.  and  wit  will  come.  At  Ferney  the  Iliad  gained 
the  (lav  over  Telemachus  :  we  no  louo-cr  have  adored 
nvmphs  but  superb  heroes;  the  ardor  of  combat 
triumphs  over  chaste  affections — Hector  and  Achilles 
lilleil  Florian's  head,  as  the  nymphs  had  filled  his 
heart.  He  undertook  to  renew  their  exploits  in  Yol- 
tuire's  garden.  There  was  in  this  garden  an  im- 
mense bed  I  if  |)oppies  with  variegated  heads. 
Every  time  that  he  passed  by  them,  he  gave  a  side 
glance  at  them,  muttering  in  a  low  tone,  "There  are 
the  faithless  Trojans:  they  shall  perish  under  my 
blows  !''  II u  gave  to  every  pop]iy  the  name  of  a  son 
of  i*ri;im,  and  the  most  l)eautiful  of  all  he  called 
Hector.    The  great  day  arrived.    He  eiiteivd  bravc- 

\  { 


!>*>'  ;; 


^  FI.ORfAN. 


ly  on  tlic  fiold  of  battle,  armed  witli  a  wooden  sabre, 
lie  cut  off  the  heads  rit!;ht  and  left  of  a  thousand 
})oppics.  In  vain  did  Xanthus  in  his  fury  strive  to 
oppose  his  passai2;e.  lie  braved  the  waters  of  Xan- 
tln.s.  Already  Deiphobus  was  no  more,  Sarpedon 
c^A,*ed  his  eyes,  Aster()})is  fell  beneath  his  blows  ; 
the  lield  of  battle  was  strewn  with  the  dying  and 
the  dead.  But  that  was  not  enough :  Hector  re- 
mained, the  murderer  of  Patroclus  still  raised  his 
haughty  head.  He  sprang  toward  him.  Tender 
Andromache,  tronil>le !  Hector  must  perish.  But 
inst  then  Yoltaire  arrived.  He  had  been  watching 
the  young  hero  half  an  hour.  He  saw  him  with  in- 
dignation cutting  the  heads  off  of  his  fine  popjucs  : 
he  arrested  him  in  his  exploits.  Florian,  qu'te  sur- 
prised, told  him  that  he  was  rehearsing  the  Iliad. 
Voltaire  laughed  heartily,  and  left  him  in  peace  to 
continue  the  war  of  the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans. 

At  Forney,  Florian  saw  how  books  are  mad';,  his 
chivalric  instincts  were  effaced.  The  sword  of  w.iich 
lie  dreamed  was  transformed  into  a  pen — the  field  of 
battle  into  a  sheet  of  paper.  However,  before  being 
a  poet,  Florian  became  a  ca])tain  of  dragoons.  Vol- 
taire thought  that  there  quite  enough  rhymsters  in 
France ;  he  dissuaded  Florian  from  poetry,  and  sent 
liim  to  the  Duke  de  Penthievre,  with  a  petition  to  liim 
to  make  something  out  of  his  scholar.  The  duke 
made  him  a  page.  Behold  Jean-Pierre  in  the  midst 
of  all  tlie  fetes  and  splendors  of  the  world,  if  not  of 
genius.  Instead  of  the  chateau  of  Femey,  which  in 
truth  had  somewhat  of  an  incomprehensible  air,  we 
liave  the  magnificent  chateau  of  Sceaux,  or  the 
poetic  one  of  Anet.     Florian,  at  a  later  day,  evoked 


MAKTYK  TO  LOVE. 


150 


its  historicrJ  associations ;  and  in  rather  bad  verse, 
recalled  the  trvct  that  Ilenry  II.  had  built  this  chateau 
for  Diana  of  Pciliet:. 

i'rom  bcLnc;  a  page  of  the  Duke  de  Penthievi-e, 
Florlan  Trent  to  the  school  of  Bapaume,  where  he 
Tc:iste'l  his  time  in  intrigues.  At  seventeen,  ]iot 
Imo-^ing  exactly  what  to  do  with  himself,  he  re- 
tunicd  to  Forney.  x\t  last,  thanks  to  Yoltaire,  the 
Didce  dc  Penthievre  gave  him  a  captain's  commission 
1 1d?  reirlment  of  dra2;oons.  As  the  war  was  finished, 
liiC  young  officei-s  fought  a  great  deal  among  them- 
selves to  expend  their  ardor,  which  did  not  prevent 
them  from  being  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
Florian  fought  marvellously.  He  carried  his  sword 
as  the  shepherds  their  crooks,  with  quite  as  much 
jxrace.  Kut\vithstandini>;  his  bucolic  instincts,  he 
shed  tlie  blood  of  his  equals  with  sufficient  coolness 
on  account  of  any  sort  of  face  that  came  along. 
AVhile  in  gan-Lson  at  Maubeuge,  he  fell  desperately 
in  love  with  a  beautiful  canoness,  who  was  sensible 
of  his  martyrdom^  as  he  himself  expresses  it.  He 
wished  to  marry  her  by  beat  <>f  drum,  like  a  trne 
captain  of  dragoons.  Marriage  then  seemed  to  hira 
tlie  princijjal  cliarin  of  love ;  but  his  family  re- 
strained liim  in  time  from  this  impulse  .vhich  car.- 
from  Ills  heart. 

From  the  date  of  this  affaii",  which  always  survived 
:n  his  mind,  he  detached  himself  by  degrees  from 
nis  foolisli  and  boisterous  intimacies.  He  sought 
solitude  to  listen  to  the  bcal!:i£rs  of  his  heart,  and  the 
fnvt  indications  of  poetry,  ri  his  di?cc"rso,  before 
llie  Frcneli  Acadcnij,  }.e  t]iii3  recalls  this  hap])y 
tiiue.     "  When  I  was  :»  boluier,  wLc:t  a  delight  it  waa 


100  FLORIAN. 

to  iv,e  after  a  noisy  drill,  to  silent!}'  witlidraw  to  the 
shade  of  the  clni-trecs  to  re-read  the  Georgics !  Un- 
til then  ho  had  not  written  a  line.  One  day  he 
jieard  that  the  academy  liad  given  as  a  subject  for 
the  poetical  prize,  the  abolition  of  servitude  in  the 
king's  domains.  "  I  took,"  says  Florian,  "  my  sensi- 
bility for  inspiration,  my  heart  stood  nie  in  place  of 
talents,  and  my  piece  gained  the  ])rize."  This  little 
poem  was  entitled,  Voltaire  and  the  Serf  of  Mount 
Jura.  The  glorious  laureate  abandoned  liis  regi- 
ment, and  came  to  Paris  to  seek  other  successes. 
Galdtca  and  Eddie  were  already  ripe  in  his  imagi- 
nation ;  but  before  gathering  them,  he  gave  himself 
np  to  the  attractions  of  the  theatre.  Encouraged  by 
]\r.  d'Argental,  he  made  some  harlequinades  for  the 
Comedie-Italienne.  Soon,  however,  his  love  for  the 
canoness  re-echoed  in  his  heart,  he  yearned  for  the 
vales  of  his  native  land.  He  recalled  the  pastoral 
(f  Cervantes,  he  re-read  Cxessner,  lie  wrote  Galatea. 
About  the  same  time,  thanks  to  Telemachus.,  and 
above  all  to  the  Inca^  he  commenced  his  poetic  ro- 
mance, N'uma  Pompilius. 

After  his  romances  and  his  comedies,  he  had 
a.othing  more  to  do,  unless  to  give  alms.  M.  de 
j'snfiiiivre,  who  was  the  most  compassionate  of  the 
dukes  of  those  days,  made  over  the  rents  of  his  best 
estate  to  Florian  to  dispense  to  the  poor.  It  wa« 
coi'tainly  the  first  time  that  a  nobleman  had  taken  a 
gentleman  into  his  service  to  dispense  alms.  Florian 
discharged  his  office  admirably.  He  scattered 
benefits  with  the  solicitude  of  a  iather  for  his  chil- 
dren. He  left  among  tlie  p<:)or  many  a  recollection 
of  his  passage  here  below. 


niS  FKIENDS. 


!G1 


After  AVltaire,  Gessner,  tlie  Dnke  de  Peiithievre, 
M.  d'Ariicntal,  ho  had  for  friends  agreeable  i)oets, 
\vb(j  fur  tiie  most  part  tliouglit,  or  pretended  to  think, 
tlieniselves  great  poets.  Tliey  were  Aniault,  Delille, 
Ducis,  Mannontel,  Funtanes.  Florian  partook  of 
tlicir  faitli.  In  his  pretty  fal)le,  tlie  Shejjhcrd  and 
the  N'ujht'ingale^  he  exclaims,  speaking  of  Delille  : 

Worthy  rival,  anil  surpassing 
Oft  Ausdiiia's  famous  bard. 

If  he  has  not  elevated  Delille  above  Homer,  it  is  on 
accouiit  of  the  rhyme. 

In  lii.-  letters,  as  in  his  minor  poems,  "\ve  always 
find  an  a<lmiring  friendship,  which  is  not  common 
among  poets,  and  at  tlie  same  time  a  primitive 
modesty.  lie  writes  to  Gessner:  "I  shonld  so  like  to 
jiass  fur  your  scholar,  but  I  am  far  from  that  good 
[(osition  ;  and  my  poor  Gcdatea^  rich  as  she  is  on  the 
]»aid<s  of  the  Tagus,  is  not  worthy  to  possess  a  little 
flock  on  the  mountains  of  Switzerland." 

Despite  liis  friends  and  his  liking  for  short  jour- 
neys, Florian  r.ften  sought  solitude.  The  Duke  de 
Tcnthievre  had  abandoned  to  him  the  summer-house 
<»f  the  chateau  at  Sceaux  :  he  passed  his  best  days 
there  in  study  and  contemplation.  lie  made  his 
])<»etical  promenades  in  the  paths  of  Aulnay,  with 
his  sp<irtive  troop  of  shepherds  and  she] "herd esses, 
listening  with  his  whole  soul  to  the  distant  bagpipes 
of  hi-^  native  land. 

At  Paris  lie  was  among  noisy  friends,  lively  mis- 
tresses, little  suppers;  but  at  the  chateau  of  Pen- 
thicvcre,Flurian  again  became  a  great  simple-minded 
chihl,  lost  in   he  iimocent  joys  of  Nature. 


I'j2  FLORIAN. 

T  luivo  iii>l  spoken  of  the  unknown  fr!eii  s  of  FoV 
rian.  The  pastoral  poet  was  adored  in  secret  by  a 
nuiltitude  of  niarcliionesses  who  reposed  tlieir  over- 
fatiii-ued  liearts  in  his  tender  eclo£2;nes.  These  poor 
niareliionesses  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.  liad  almost 
all  skipped  over  tlieir  youth,  Tliey  had  spoiled  their 
springtime  by  rouge,  patches,  powder,  and  hoop 
petticoats,  in  reading  Galatea  and  Estelle  they  found 
again,  as  if  by  enchantment,  that  youth  with  rosy 
cheeks  which  they  had  a  glimpse  of,  as  one  has  a 
glim])?e  in  a  mirror  of  a  graceful  and  distant  form, 
half  hidden  by  the  whirl  of  the  waltz.  In  reading 
Florian  all  these  poor  neglected  women,  already 
turning  pale  at  the  approaches  of  the  Revolution,  felt 
themselves  young  for  the  first  time,  their  cheeks 
were  withered,  but  the  soul,  long  buried  under  an 
exterior,  seared  by  profane  loves,  bloomed  like  the 
violet  beneath  the  snow ;  the  mouth  was  dead,  but 
the  heart  lived.  They  had  commenced  with  Crebil- 
lon  the  Gay,  they  would  fain  end  with  Florian. 

An  old  marquis  —  the  last  marquis  —  having  still, 
in  spite  of  the  reign  of  terror  and  his  eighty  yeai-s, 
that  mild  and  intelli£rent  smile  which  died  with  the 
eighteenth  century,  has  given  me  the  full  benefit  of 
his  recollections  for  this  poiii'ait.  He  often  saw 
Florian  in  1TS8  ;  and  if  he  is  to  be  believed,  F^lorian 
was  not  the  pale  and  fair  complexion  poet,  with 
a  melting,  pure  smile  and  hesitating  speech,  such 
as  we  see  him  through  his  works.  He  was  of  dai-k 
complexion ;  he  was  gay ;  his  conversation  had 
much  playfulness  and  satii-c  :  he  had  wit  or  an  epi- 
gram always  at  hand,  but  scarcely  ever  a  gallant 
speech  :  however,  the  Princess  de  Lamballe  was  ac- 


MODEL  SHEPHERDS.  1  C3 

customed  to  say  :  "  I  like  better  to  hear  him  than  to 
read  him.  His  face  was  cut  on  the  model  of  Parny's ; 
it  was  rather  less  animated,  but  quite  as  striking. 
Florian  had  purity  and  simplicity  only  in  the  soli- 
tude of  the  fields  —  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  world 
he  became  almost  a  Don  Juan.  Two  natures  inces- 
santly struiTSled  within  him,  the  child  of  the  moun- 
tains  and  tlie  captain  of  dragoons,  the  pastoral  poet 
and  the  hero  of  the  Comedie  Italienne ;  and  it  is 
under  these  difierent  aspects  that  we  must  study  him. 
M.  de  Thiard  said,  and  plenty  of  others  after  him, 
that  in  all  the  shepherd  scenes  of  Florian,  a  wolf 
was  wanting.  In  fact  we  are  put  out  with  Nemorino, 
for  nifJ'ing  no  attempts  upon  the  innocence  of  Es- 
telle.  This  innocence  gets  off  too  easily.  We  should 
not  be  ?3rry  to  see  thi:.  spotless  lamb  in  the  grasp  of 
the  wolf,  tnough  the  wolf  shoidd  eat  her.  But  Florian 
was  not  so  much  of  a  shepherd  as  has  been  ima- 
gined ;  as  regards  gallantry  he  was  really  almost  a 
captain  of  dragoons.  The  little  abbes  and  the  poets 
of  the  time  ha<l  not  left  him  so  much  behind.  Have 
you  an  idea  who  were  the  models  of  his  sheplicrd- 
essc  ?  Neither  more  nor  less  tlian  the  actresses  of 
the  Comcdie-Italienne.  Mademoiselle  Camille,  wliom 
lie  has  sung  more  than  once,  has  sat  for  Estelle.  It 
is  thir,  same  Mademoiselle  Camille  whose  portrait  b<9 
has  thus  drawn  : — 

Who  is  Camilla,  do  \'ou  ask  ? 

A  creature  lively,  gay,  and  loving ; 
A  fairy  bcneuth  Cu|)iil's  mask, 

'Twixt  town  and  court  for  ever  roving, 
Turning  ail  luails  but  her  own. 
Light  Mho  lri|H  through  life  alone. 


1 CA  FLORIAJT. 

Laughing  still  at  each  new  lover. 

Gay  and  free  her  way  she  wends  ; 
Grace  and  wit  around  her  hover, 

She  conies  —  each  knee  in  homage  bends. 
A  little  bag  is  all  she  carries. 
Slips  in  each  heart,  no  longer  tarries. 

But  forward  where  her  journey  tends. 

In  reference  to  liis  works  as  to  liis  life,  it  is  espo- 
ciallv  necessary  to  l)rina;  forward  those  tliinirs  which 
are  neglected.  We  will  pass  rapidly  ovtir  JV^uma^ 
(xonzalv  >^  William  Tcll^iiW  of  which  belong  to  an 
iuunature  literature,  which  we  nnist  condenm,  with- 
out pity  for  SDnie  pretty  ])ictures  and  some  grace- 
ful passages.  These  songs  are  solemn  puerilities  : 
they  are  historical  pieces  in  pastel.  The  h  :roes  of 
these  strange  epics  are  at  the  most  only  lit  to  tend 
sheep,  and  are  afraid  of  wolves  at  that.  In  Switzer- 
h.nd,  at  Eome,  in  Spain,  Florian  saw  nothing,  hut 
an  eclogue.  Once  only,  doubtless  as  a  change,  he 
has  seen  fit  to  put  the  heroic  trumpet  to  his  lips  in- 
stead of  the  rustic  pipe.  His  Summary  of  the  E^- 
taUishnicnt  of  the,  Moors^  is  one  of  the  best  chap- 
ters of  the  history  of  Spain.  AVe  will  pass  raj)idly  ovur 
Galatea  and  Estelle^  so  much  despised,  but  so  much 
like  a  fairytale  —  an  enchanted  world,  a  refrerhing 
oasis.  We  will  pass  ra])idly  over  the  twelve  JVovcls. 
Tliese  little  romances,  intended  by  the  author  to  re- 
call to  ns  the  private  history  of  all  countries,  at  least 
remind  us  that  we  have  a  heart.  Florian  told  stories 
marvellously  well,  as  ]\[armontel  says,  in  speaking  of 
him,  Natm-e  said  to  him,  Tell  stories.  One  of  his 
little  romauces,  Claudine,  is  a  mastei-picce  of  Na- 
tui-e  and  sentiment.     Tlave  you  ever  read  anything 


HIS  TALE3  AN."'  PO.^:iiS.  105 

CO  tiinjile  and  toucliinc;  ns  tliis  so  well-kri-v -^'U  song 
T\-hich  Claudine  sir.g8?  — 

Poor  little  Joan.  W'^srierl  I  sigh, 

Who  once  s^ng  so  gay  !  i*]y  love's  far  away  ; 

Sad  and  alone.  Nothing  have  I 

Why  hast  naug'it,  to  -.ay  1  To  others  to  say. 


Do  you  know  anything  more  simple  and  tender 
.an  tiiis  Lalla 
r^/.nember?  — 


tiian  tiiis  ballad  of  Robin  Gray,  a  stanza  of  which  I 


My  father  argued  sair;  My  n:iOT:':er  didna  speak; 
]^ut  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break  : 
Sae  they  gied  him  my  hand,  though  my  heart  was  in  the  sea; 
And  ii-^ld  Robin  Gray  was  guderaan  to  me. 

Amono'  the  thino;s  which  are  neo-lcctcd  iz  the 
'^'^oks  of  Flurian,  ?r9  to  be  found  hi,e  poen:,.'  in  verse, 
his  fugitive  postry,  ?.'is  trfrslation  of  Don  Quixote, 
and  of  the  episode  of  Ines  de  Castro,  the  eulogy  on 
Louis  XII.,  his  Mes  in  verse,  a,nd  an  Anacreontic 
tile.  Although  tbo  ,*.:.sderay  bestowed  the  prj.  3 
•jp(,>n  his  poems,  they  aru  the  attempts  of  a  tyro  wliich 
do  not  promise  much  —  no  imagination,  no  entliu- 
ciasm,  no  grandeur;  occasionally  agreeable  verses, 
but  oftv-ncr  poor  hemistiches  which  go  hobbling  along, 
j)icking  up  f  long  the  road  bad  enough  rhymer^  His 
fugitive  poems  ?..!'0  of  a  piece  with  the  r;thcrs ;  how- 
ever we  mu.'jt  reco.^riiee  the  charminir  crace  and 
])lcasing  v.nconsbamt,  of  the  minor  poets  of  the  time. 
IliH  tivuisiation  of  Don  Qrixo^e  is  only  a  pretty  piece 
of  ]>uerility ;  Corva^tOti  would  have  been  sorry  enough 
to  have  seen  liis  licro  In  sncli  French  costume.  Tiie 
tran.slati(jn  in  verse  of  the  opi&cJy  of  liies  do  Castrc 


166  FLORIAN. 

is  more  happj.  Wc  do  not  find  in  Florian  tlie 
grand .^ur  and  splendor  of  the  l*ortngnese  poet,  but 
almost  ahvjivs  the  sentiment  ^vllicll  inspired  liim. 
Thns  the  strophe  which  commences  Assi  como  is 
rendered  with  a  trul^  Floj'ianesrpie  grace,  as  the 
jlower  too  early  reaped.  The  enlogy  on  Louis  XII. 
was  worthy  of  a  prize  from  the  Academy  ;  that  is  to 
say,  worthy  of  the  poems  in  venie.  The  stories  in 
verse  are  light  and  gracelo!  satires,  '.'.'hich  harm  no 
one.  The  Anacreontic  story  is  charming :  it  is  called 
the  Muses.  Thalia  is  walking  at  the  foot  of  Pp,r- 
nassns  in  search  of  a  lover.  Instead  of  a  lover  kLo 
meets  a  fair,  half-naked  child,  who  is  running  after 
hutterflie='.  ?nd  taking  a  cruel  pleasure  in  piercing 
them  ^ifh  ],  ks.  Thalia  asks  why  he  is  so  mischiev- 
ous. The  child  replies  that  tired  of  doing  nothing 
he  does  evil.  The  beauty  and  spirit  of  the  child 
chanii  the  Muse,  who  begs  him  to  go  with  her.  IIo 
picks  up  a  little  bag,  throws  it  over  his  shoulder,  and 
gives  Tlialia  his  hand.  What  have  you  got  in  your 
bag,  my  child  ?  Nothing  but  my  playthings,  lie 
commences  an  enchanting  song  which  has  neither 
air  nor  words.  Ai'rived  at  Parnassus,  Thalia,  jeal- 
ous of  her  sisters,  resolves  to  conceal  the  child  from 
them.  She  imprisons  him  m  an  orchard  enclosed  by 
hedges.  There  she  passes  all  her  days  in  teaching 
him  to  read  :  we  are  not  told  w^hat  book.  Soon, 
however,  the  poor  Muse  sighs  uneasily  as  she  regards 
her  scholar.  The  child  profits  marvellously  by  this 
first  success.  "  M:\7iima,"  he  says  to  her,  "  you  carry 
in  your  hand  a  clianning  mask,  which  is  always 
langhing,  give  it  to  me  or  I  shall  die  of  grief."  — 
"  But,"  says  Thalia,  "  it  is  the  attribute  of  my  divin- 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  MUSES.  IC'7 

ity."  —  "  So  much  tlie  woree !"  smswers  the  traitor. 
The  poor  Muse  gives  tlic  mask,  and  the  rogue  con- 
ceals it  ill  Ids  bag.  This  is  not  all.  Thalia  has  only 
taui;-lit  him  cctmedv,  he  wants  to  know  evervthinij; — ■ 
music,  dancing,  philosophy,  and  even  astronomy,  it 
all  turns  to  swma  account.  "  Open  the  orchard  for 
me,"  says  the  traitor,  "that  I  may  go  and  learn  from 
all  your  sisters ;  once  learned  I  will  return  to  re 
main  with  vt>u  for  ever."  Thalia  gives  him  his  liber- 
ty.  and  he  goes  to  trouble  the  heads  of  fJl  the  other 
Muses  —  even  Melpomene  can  not  escape.  She  too 
htves  tlie  joyous  child.  Xow  comes  jealousy  wliich 
]>uts  all  Panuipsus  in  disorder.  The  arts  are  despised, 
tlie  dances  and  concerts  interrui)ted.  Meantime 
Minerva  visits  the  Kine  Sisters  —  she  finds  a  pro- 
found silence.  The 'Muses,  scattered,  pensive,  soli- 
tary, blushing,  hide  themselves.  At  last  they  re- 
assend)]e  to  sing  the  j^raises  of  their  protectress  ;  but 
their  voices  are  in  discord.  They  have  forgotten 
their  songs.  Xot  one  of  them  has  her  attributes,  the 
chihl  has  taken  all,  and  turned  them  into  ])lavthings. 
All  of  a  sudden  this  fatal  child  spreads  his  wJiite 
wings,  from  which  all  his  stolen  goods  are  suspended. 
He  takes  liis  flight  with  a  lauo;ii.  "  Adieu !"  savs 
he  to  the  Muses;  "don't  forget  me:  my  name  is 
Love,  and  it  always  costs  something  to  make  my  ac- 
(piaintance. 

On  succeeding  to  his  patrimonial  inlicritancc, 
Florian  had  received  nothing  but  debts.  It  was 
jxirtly  on  tliis  account  that  he  tried  the  theatre,  autl 
tiie  theatre  made  his  fortune.  Tln'oni^hout  his  com- 
('(lies  and  Iiarle(|uinavles,  he  remained  faithful  to  hie 
Ltyle.      He  maib;  the  echtgue  flrturish  even  on  the 


IGS  FLOEIAU. 

boards  of  the  Corned ic-Italicniie.  IIow  do  joii  sup- 
pose lie  inctaiiK^rpliosed  Ilarleiniiii  into  agoodjSensi- 
Me  fellow 'i  li!  ivl'ereiK'e  to  this,  eome  one  said  :  "  You 
are  Ilarlo(|uir.,  iiiy  luastei-,  and  you  weep!"  This 
Harlequin  of  Florian's,  however,  weeps  with  as  good 
a  grace  as  the  other  Harlequins  laugli.  In  his 
dranui,  Florian  belongs  to  the  seliool  of  Marivaux, 
He  lavishes  at  once  all  the  little  sensibilities  o{  his 
soul,  and  all  the  little  o;races  of  liis  mind.  It  must 
be  confessed  that  this  mind  is  not  that  of  a  master  ; 
but  on  the  other  hand  the  scholar  has  a  certain 
charm  of  original  sim})licitj.  In  other  respects  there 
should  be  no  misapprehension  :  the  drama  of  Flo- 
rian should  with  justice,  and  in  si)ite  of  La  llarjie, 
be  condemned  to  oblivion  ;  it  has  lona'  since  only 
been  a  drama  for  children,  Fh^rian,  who  rehearsed 
all  his  comedies  at  M.  d '  Argental's  house,  played 
the  partof  IIarlc(piin  with  much  gajety  and  feeling. 
The  M-orthy  Carlin  did  not  play  better  if  we  may 
believe  the  gazettes  af  the  times. 

The  most  ardent  and  most  delightful  dream  of  the 
poet  of  Estelle^  was  an  armchair  at  the  Academy. 
Oh,  my  poor  poet,  so  enamored  of  solitude,  of  ver- 
dant mountains,  of  shaded  valleys,  of  babbling  s]>rings, 
what  do  you  want  in  this  Academy  so  dismal  and 
noisy  ?  AVhy  seat  yourself  in  the  shadow  of  the 
pedant  called  La  Harpe  ?  You,  who  sang  so  well 
in  the  shadow  of  the  elm-trees  ?  Florian  liad  the 
Academy  fever  more  severely  than  any  one  else ; 
f  )r  ten  yeai's  he  sighed  only  for  the  Academy.  At 
last  the  Academy  to(.»k  pity  on  him  —  pity,  that  is 
almost  the  word.  He  succeeded  the  Cardinal  de 
Luynes.     His  reception  was  most  brilliant,  thanks 


FLOKIAN  AXD  LA  FONTAtN^E.  169 

especially  to  the  presence  of  the  Duke  de  PenthievTc, 
the  Duchess  of  Orleans,  and  the  Princess  de  Lani- 
balle.  Ilis  discourse  was  again  an  eclogue.  .I'o- 
riau  relates  therein  hou^  he  became  a  poet.  "Tlio 
song  of  the  birds,  the  murmur  of  the  waves,  the 
tranquil  calm  of  the  woods,  all  spoke  t>,<  me  of 
poetr\-.  The  tree  arrested  me  beneath  its  shade,  the 
solitary  tuuntain  wlrlah  I  Irid  hitherto  S(»ught  to 
qneueh  u\y  thirst,  I  now  soi.ght  for  my  pleasure ; 
the  deserts  even,  the  rugged  mountains,  the  unculti- 
vated an'.l  wild  h.aunts,  had  charms  for  i  ;g  :  011  vas 
euibeliislj-d  to  my  eyes.  I  at  last  felt  iNature.'"  On 
this  day  the  happy  academician  first  made  Icnown 
his  fables.  He  Mas  applauded  ;  he  was  declared  by 
the  Academy  to  be  the  siiccessor  of  La  Fontaine. 
Tiie  Academy  had  not  much  to  say  on  that  day. 
Xo  one  has  succeeded  to  that  masjuificent  heritaore  : 
yU>rIan  himself  is  but  a  faint  copyist,  lie  has  cre- 
at<;:i  nothing,  he  has  tran>hited  German  and  especial- 
ly f*.ji.:!:ish  apologues.  Thus  the  ingenious  fabulist 
Acl.,>-Triai'te  loses  all  his  charm  in  Florian's  verse  ; 
v'.i  can  hr/.'.lly  understand  the  point  of  his  fable. 
3f.y.ve\  er,  in  dufault  of  creative  genius,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted tliat  Florian's  fables  possess  nature  and  sim- 
]»licity.  It  is  not,  as  in  La  Fontaine,  the  peculiar 
attraction  of  the  story,  the  ingenious  disposition  of 
the  cliaracters,  the  perfect  dialogue,  in  fine,  that 
comedy  in  a  hundred  different  acts,  which  is  notli- 
ing  h'ss  tlian  the  comedy  of  life;  but  l)eneath  all 
this  there  is  something  more.  Florian  has  found 
scenes  worthy  of  come<ly.  La  Fontaine  always  gives 
us  the  scciios  of  life,  Florian  sometimes  that  of  the 
hea:t. 

15 


170  rLOivix\:T. 

The  F-l->lc  cf  I'krian  ]ia=i  n  cluinii  from  its  sweet- 
iiess  :iiid  clearne'33.  It  liiis  the  tender  freslmess,  the 
pn?-ii:g  briliif.nLj,  the  clear  Line  color  of  the  peri- 
■wialvle  ;  but  like  tlie  periAvhilN-le  it  wants  strength. 
It  is  the  easy  stvle  of  a  second-rate  author.  AVe 
must  not  coiilbuutl  this  facility  with  the  appearance 
of  facility  which  conceals  the  labor  of  the  great 
nuisters. 

The  life  of  Florian  was  im  idyl  alrac/st  to  the  end, 
in  spite  of  the  dragocns  and  the  actresses  ;  but  the 
Ivc\'olution  cani-j  to  3p'"'il  this  idjd  in  its  most  beauti- 
lul  rla,n2,:-".  Dow  cor.ld  it  well  be  finish fd  in  face 
of  the  Tec'roriscs,  in  face  of  Marat,  that  surgeon,  who 
with  the  guillotine  for  a  scalpel,  stalked  throughout 
France  ;  in  face  of  those  terrible  journalists  who 
wrote  so  many  epitaphs  ;  in  face  of  that  maddcu'/l 
people  who  gave  a  loose  rein  to  all  the  passions,  good 
and  bad,  great  and  little. 

Banibhcd,  like  many  others  on  account  of  ]>is 
name,  Florian  took  refuge  at  Sceaux  in  1T93,  :-fid 
there  in  solitude  he  sang  still,  as  Avell  as  he  C(.v'i.j, 
the  shepherdesoes  and.  the  ilv'lds ;  but  the  sans-c::- 
lottes  of  the  neighborhood,  aug'zring  ill  of  him  from 
his  alms-ixivin<>:  and  dreamv  ai.-,  ]r!fv)rmed  the  Com- 
mittee  of  Public  Safety,  that  the  f^ivner  chevalier  T)e 
Florian  had  coiicealed  treasm-e,  and  vras  affected  M'ith 
the  aristocratic  fever.  Thereupon  the  poor  pastoral 
poet  was  conducted  to  La  Bourbi\  In  this  hideous 
prison,  which  gave  up  its  inmr.tc3  only  to  the  guillo- 
tine, Florian,  although  quivering  witl)  terroi",  found  as 
ever  shepherdesses  and  elm-trees.  He  still  sounded 
the  rural  pipe.  Like  Tt<>ucher,  like  Chenier.  he 
Bang  to  the  end.    lie,  however,  escaped  the  scaffold, 


niS    GENIUS. 


171 


but  not  death.  Death  liad  marked  him  on  tiie 
threshold  of  La  Bom-be,  and  counted  upon  him.  It 
was  in  vain  they  told  him  on  the  fall  of  liobespien-e, 
"  Tliuu  art  saved."  It  was  in  vain  they  received  him 
on  his  return  to  Sceaux,  with  a  fete  got  up  out  of  his 
romances,  the  ]>rison  had  more  than  half  killed  him. 
lie  ended  by  dyinir  side  by  side  with  a  poor  jioeni, 
William  TcZ^,  which  he  had  finished  in  prison. 

Does  not  tlie  poet  of  the  elms  himself  offer  us 
the  figure  which  best  paints  his  jKietic  destiny  ? 
Is  he  not  a  ficxible  elm,  nuurishiuir  its  branches 
in  the  wind,  the  sun,  and  the  dew  ?  At  first  Xature 
cradles  it  in  her  bosom,  it  stretches  out  its  arms  to- 
ward Heaven,  the  Heaven  which  l>estows  life  upon 
it,  in  the  sun.  wind,  and  rain.  It  grows,  it  ex- 
])ands  ;  it  timidly  ]>uts  forth  its  green  shoots  while 
miu'i.iuring  the  sweetest  songs.  A  tempest  comes 
which  overthrows  it.  The  temjiest  past,  it  scarce 
tries  to  raise  its  head,  the  sun's  force  fails,  and 
it  dies  half  verdant  and  half  withered.  You  will 
pardon  me  the  simile  :  as  you  know,  Florian  com- 
menced by  cradling  his  growing  genius  on  the 
bosom  of  Nature.  lie  stretched  out  his  arms  to- 
\\i\i\\  poetry,  which  is  the  heaven  of  the  poets. 
The  jtoetrv  of  S])ain  !«hed  her  abundant  dews  upon 
liiiii.  the  tree  i)ut  forth  its  swaying  branches,  the 
brandies  expanded  beneath  the  infinence  of  Fcnelon 
and  Voltaire;  soon  all  the  winds,  good  and  bad, 
make  tlie  tree  incline-  by  turns  and  murmur,  now 
tender  romances,  now  langiiishing  idyls.  Thus  Flo- 
rian admired  a  pastoral  of  Cervantes,  and,  full  of 
ardor,  sets  to  work  to  translate  it.  He  re-reads 
Ttit'hiachH.s,  and  wTites  Numa.     Inspired  by  Gess- 


172  FLORIAN. 

ner  and  ]\I()ntein.ayor,  lie  writes  Edelle.  ITe  is 
entlmsiastie  aUnnt  tlie  Incas  j  and  ai'ter  the  Tncm 
conies  Gonstih'o.  Xeed  we  say  tliat  his  poems  and 
tales  in  verse  are  the  children  of  Yoltaire  ?  But  wo 
must  likewise  ailiiiit,  that  amon<i;  all  these  foreign 
rays  whieh  cross  and  o|)])i>se  one  another,  we  al- 
ways discover  the  icenius  of  Florian.  y^a  recognise 
at  each  page  this  sweet  child  of  the  fields,  often  a 
dj'eamcr,  soinetiiiies  playful,  who  smiles  with  so  much 
tenderness,  who  climbs  the  mountain  to  hear  more  dis- 
tinctly the  herdmaivs  pipe  and  the  shej 'herd's  reed, 
who  reposes  with  snch  a  melancholy  charm  by  the 
banks  of  the  cherry-tive  soi'ing  to  collect  his  thoughts, 
t(i  listen  to  the  first  symphonies  of  his  soul,  those 
distant  songs  which  carry  ns  away  on  the  clouds. 
Every  page  of  the  tender  poet  carries  us  back  to 
the  tair  morn  of  life,  when  our  souls  so  joyously  ex- 
panded to  the  sun.  Every  scene  i'eo})ens  to  us 
through  the  entangled  thicket  of  the  passions,  the 
clear  vista  toward  the  dawn  of  love,  and  the  clear 
ether  of  the  sky  ! 

Apro]>os  of  similes  there  is  one  a  thonsand  times 
better  than  mine.  The  rpicen,  Marie- Antoinette, 
forgot  in  the  perusal  of  Florian  the  lirst  murmurs  of 
the  Ilevolution.  "In  reading  Florian  it  seems  as  if 
I  was  eating  milk  porridge."  This  reflection  is  not 
exactly  that  of  an  ingenuous  mind,  bat  it  is  just  and 
pointed. 


DOUFFLERS 


<  »x  a  fiiif  spring  morning,  in  the  middle  of  tlie 
siirliteenth  centurv,  in  tlie  countrv  about  Lnneville.  a 
young  chevalier,  of  alxnit  twenty  years  of  age,  was 
giving  a  Ioo.se  rein  to  his  large  English  horse,  inspir- 
ited bv  the  excitement  of  the  chase  and  tlie  odor  of 
the  fresh  pasture.     Some  score  of  hounds  of  all  va- 
riety of  form  and  color,  scattered  through  the  valley, 
ke}>t  u]»  a  lively  echoing  cry.    Our  clievalier  followed 
them  with  his  eyes,  without  troubling  himself  about 
the  damage  they  wei'e   doing  in   their  wandering 
course.     What  nuitters  the  harvest,  when  the  llower 
dazzles  and  intoxicates  us  —  when  one  is  profoundly 
ha]tpy  ^     lie  was  happy,  hapjiy  in  the  enjoyment  of 
tlie  nioniing,  ha]»py  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  pure 
Hky,  tlie  verdant  landscape,  in  the  fullness  of  perfect 
free(him.     Every  nuin  once  in  his  youth — perhajis 
l»nt  once  —  has  seized  with  a  liasty  grasp  as  it  glided 
l)y,  that  sweet  hap|)iness,  which,  like  a  ray  of  a 
Kpring-day  sun,  drinks  in  the  dew  on  the  primrose 
of  till'  meadow. 

Tills  young  chevalier  was  Stanislaus  de  Boufflei's, 
wlio  liiid  passed   Iiis  iiifancv  and  early  youth  al   the 

15* 


17-i  BOUFFLEKS. 

court,  of  Liinoville,  under  the  eye  of  his  mother,  the 
celebrated  Marchioness  de  Bonfflers.  He  had  lived 
without  care,  pui-snino;  his  studies  in  the  open  air, 
badly  cnou^-h  brought  up  I))  the  Abbe  Porquet, 
"  who  could  not  repeat  his  Benedicite,  although  he 
Mas  almoner  to  the  king  of  Poland."  As  may  be 
seen,  Bouttlers  had  in  his  mother  and  his  tutor,  two 
guardians  easy  to  content ;  two  guardians  who 
forgave  everything  in  a  yiiuth  of  spirit,  and  our 
young  chevalier  knew  well  how  to  obtain  forgive- 
ness. 

His  time  was  passed  in  riding,  hunting,  and  dan- 
cing. "  When  I  think  of  this  court  of  Lunevillc,-' 
said  BoutHers,  when  he  had  grown  old,  "  I  seem 
to  be  thinking  of  some  pages  of  romance  rather  than 
some  Years  of  my  life."  He  was  a  handsome  youth, 
full  of  grace  and  of  a  fine  figure,  having  a  sally  or 
a  madrigal  ever  on  his  lips.  He  danced  marvellous- 
ly, painted  prettily,  played  tolerably  on  the  violin, 
brought  down  a  deer  splendidly.  I  came  near  for- 
getting that  he  picked  up  here  and  there  some 
crumbs  of  literature  and  science,  at  the  foot  of  the 
table  of  the  court  Avhere  the  guests  Avere  Voltaire, 
Madame  Duchatelet,  Montesquieu,  St.  Lambert, 
Pi-£sident  Ilcnault,  M.  de  Tressan,  Madame  de 
Grammont.  The  Abbe  Porquet  himself,  although 
his  tutor,  succeeded  from  time  to  time  in  getting  the 
better  of  the  laziness  of  the  chevalier.  The  Abbe 
P<n"(pu;t  Avas  a  quasi  man  of  letters,  deficient  in 
Kcai'cely  anything  but  wit,  science,  and  imagination. 
He  taught  all  he  knew  to  his  pupil.  It  sometimes 
liapj)ened  that  he  led  him  into  a  world  unknown  to 
both  of  them  —  into  transcendental  metaphysics  — 


THE    CHIEF    GOOD.  175 

eHpcrliniiifin  pliilosopLv.  Tliu8  on  the  moriiino,'  that 
Bunliieis,  as  we  have  described,  was  galloping  away 
on  his  line  liorse,  the  Ablie  Purquet  had  i>roposed  to 
liini  tlie  question  —  a  question  a  thousand  times  solved 
hv  tlie  urreatest  minds,  and  vet  always  to  be  solved 
anew — AVhat  is  the  chief  good  here  below?  "I 
shall  be  delighted  to  studv  this  grave  questiori," 
Boufflers  had  said ;  "  I  therefore  intend  to  mount 
my  hoi-se,  and  meditate  upon  it  in  the  open  air/'  So 
he  had  gone  off  with  his  dogs,  leaving  the  abbe 
standing.  The  lu'ave  almoner,  as  he  beheld  him  dis- 
appear in  the  cloud  of  dust  raised  l)y  his  horse's  gal- 
lop, said,  shaking  his  head,  "  There  goes  a  youth  who 
M-ill  pass  his  life  on  horseback,  but  who  will  never 
make  his  way  in  the  world." 

Let  us  resume  our  ride  with  the  chevalier.  Who 
knows  if  we  shall  not  find  with  him  the  solution  to 
the  aldje's  question?  After  a  thousand  bonnds  over 
the  grassy  ])lain,  through  woods  and  cornfieUls,  the 
horse  stopjied,  entirely  out  of  breath,  at  the  corner 
of  a  little  clump  of  elms  and  oaks.  His  horse  had  gone 
so  well  for  three  hours,  that  the  chevalier  did  not 
attcmi»t  to  urge  him  fnrtlier.  lie  leai)ed  off  gayly 
on  the  grass,  took  oft'  his  Ijridle,  and  allowed  hiiu  to 
browse  on  the  edge  of  the  wood.  For  himself,  after 
liaving  called  some  of  his  dogs,  he  began  to  break- 
fast tjn  a  partridge  and  some  bread,  washing  the  whole 
down  by  some  quatfs  of  water  from  the  neighboring 
spring.  "  A  horse,  a  dog,  a  little  grass  in  the  sha<b', 
i»  tli(^  chiel"  good,"  he  muniiure-l  afrer  his  lirst 
libation. 

r>et  me  ] taint  with  a  single  touch,  the  landscape  in 
whirh  out-  <heva1ii;r   was   enjoying  so  much  hapjii- 


1 70  BOUFFLKRS. 

iiess.  A  little  valley,  recedinii;  iK'twccn  two  lii'ils, 
crowned  v;ith  large,  tliiekly-k-axi'd  ti'ees  ;  a  little 
hamlet  reattcrcd  cheertully  mi  tiie  horizon,  uliere  the 
eye  rested  ujioii  a  clmrcli  s])iiv.  In  the  valley  s>oiiie 
woo^ls  enclo.siiig  liehl-^  ot'  iiiiri|>e  grain  and  elowr, 
here  and  tlie)'e  an  oi'cliard  whitiMU'd  with  blossoms, 
a  large  meadow  tiiroiigli  wliirh  a  lazy  stream  was 
flowing,  a  lew  i-nstic  bridges,  a  (juiet  herd  of  red  and 
brown  cows.  In  the  distance,  in  the  direction  of  the 
little  handet,  a  chateau,  the  crrav  towers  of  which 
were  alone  perceptible  above  the  trees.  Finally 
above  all.  the  smile  of  heawn,  the  cheerful  rays  of 
the  sun,  the  music  of  the  lark,  the  expansixe  joy  of 
Kature.  "  Yes."  exclaimed  Boufflers,  o-ivino;  him- 
self  up  heart  and  soul  to  the  scene,  "  a  horse,  a 
dog." 

The  words  died  on  his  lips  in  spite  of  himself. 
There  appe-.ired,  as  if  by  magic,  on  the  skirts  of  the 
wood,  a  young  and  pretty  ]K'asant-gii'l,  "vvith  a  co- 
(piettish  looking  ca}*,  a  white  Ixxldice  and  red  ])ctti- 
coat,  with  a  pot  of  milk  in  her  hand.  "  Delightful," 
he  exclaimed,  raising  himself  to  see  her  lii'ttvr: 
"one  might  thiidc  that  it  was  a  fable  of  La  Fontaine, 
I  forgot  that  after  a  dog  and  a  horse,  a  woman  should 
l)e  considered  the  chief  good,  and  this  one  comes  in 
the  nick  of  tune." 

He  saw  with  joyful  heart  that  she  would  have  to 
pass  close  to  him  in  order  to  cross  the  brook  on  a 
little  wooden  l)ridge,  or  rather  on  two  boards  an- 
swering as  a  l)ridge  for  nimble  feet.  ITe  rose  to 
rnT-ot  her.  "'vYhat  did  he  say?  "What  did  she  an- 
swer? I  vs'as  not  there:  I  don't  know.  Accord- 
iuiT  to  him,  she  had  a  verv  pretty  mouth,  and  conse- 


Irl-r 


ALINE.  17 

qnentl}  a  great  deal  of  wit.  Her  name  was  Eliza- 
beth, he  called  her  Aline.  She  was  sixteen,  and  the 
daughter  o^  a  farmer  of  the  valley.  The  chevalier 
wanted  to  kiss  her.  The  horse  neighed,  tlie  dogs 
l)arked,  slie  defended  lierself  like  a  hird  trying  to 
ily  from  the  hirdcatcher,  the  pot  of  milk  fell,  she 
i;a\e  a  sweet,  sharv*  crv :  l»nt  the  kiss  M'as  taken. 
"Oh,  Heavens!"  she  exclaimed  with  girlish  fright, 
taking  np  her  pot,  "  more  than  half  the  milk  is 
spilled.-' — •'  Wait !"  said  BoufQers,  "  that  is  only  lialf 
a  misfortune." 

lie  went  and  filled  the  pot  at  the  fountain.  On 
his  return  he  was  so  wildly  gay  and  tender;  he 
talked  nonsense  so  well  that  xVline  was  induced  to 
remain  iov  a  short  half  hour  ;  she  listened  to  him  in 
delighted  surprise,  as  to  the  sweet  murmur  of  a 
fountain,  the  twitter  of  a  Imllfineh.  It  was  better 
than  this,  for  it  was  love  that  spoke.  IS^ever  had 
love  spoken  under  more  favorable  circumstances. 
The  breeze,  still  fresh,  spread  a  perfume  of  pure 
ha]>piuess  over  all,  the  bee  buzzed  gayly  about  the 
watiM'-lilies  of  the  brook,  the  flocks  of  pigeons  flew 
across  the  meadow  joyoiisly  beating  their  wings. 

"  My  dear  Aline,  I  wish  I  was  yoiir  brother;  that 
is  not,  however,  exactly  what  I  want  to  say."  — 
"And  I  should  like  to  be  your  sister."  — "  All,  I 
love  you  at  least  quite  as  much  as  if  you  were." 
On  hearing  this  she  allowed  him  tf)  kiss  her  a  second 
time  without  much  resistance.  AVhile  conversing, 
Boufflers  leaned  over  tlie  edge  of  the  brook,  and 
gathered  a  red  and  white  daisy,  a  s])rig  of  jirim- 
I'ose,  a  green  blade  of  reed  grass,  a  s])rig  of  thyme, 
and  marjoram    a  forget-me-not,  and  some  other  little 


ITS  B(  UFFI.KUS. 

Ilowcis,  tviiiii-  the  Avliulc  tuo-ether  with  a  Lit  of 
rii,-h.  '•  I  slioiild  like  to  offer  you  a  throne  with  tliis. 
lUit.''  he  eoiitiiiiied,  attachiiii:'  the  hoiiiiuet  to  tlio 
h()(Uliceof  Aline,  "  it' I  couhl,  thit^  boni|uet  wniihl  l)e 
none  the  better  ])hice(l." 

Aline  said  every  moment  that  she  was  j^oini;;.  "1 
must  realJij  (j<i  vow  ;''"'  but  she  still  remained — lier 
feet  rooted  to  the  grass,  her  eyes  a;lancinii;  in  the 
brook.  Some  woodeutters  came  alonij.  "  Adieu," 
said  she  sadly.  "  Adieu,  my  dear  Alhie.  Adieu, 
adieu." 

She  took  up  her  pot,  siirhcd,  and  slowly  withdrew. 
''  Ah,"  said  I>oufflers,  "  why  can  not  1  iro  with  her 
everywhere  —  always  with  her 'f"  lie  followed  her 
with  his  looks,  M'hicli  she  stealthily  returned  ;  but 
she  was  soon  lost  in  a  thicket  of  beeches;  he  still 
cauo-ht  a  g-lim])se  of  her  coquettish  bomjct,  lier  light 
]>etticoat,  a  liand  which  gave  a  last  signal  of  fare- 
well—  and  she  disa])peared. 

The  chevalier,  without  fear  ami  without  rei»roach, 
leaped  on  his  horse,  whistled  to  his  dogs,  ami  sigh- 
ing took  the  i"oad  to  Luneville.  A  little  this  side  of 
it  he  came  across  tlie  grave  Abbe  Porquet,  reclining 
under  an  old  elm-tree,  and  intently  perusing  St.  Au- 
gustine. "I  have  to  keep  a  somcAvhat  distant  w-ateh 
over  yi >u.  Where  did  you  come  from,  vagabond  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  abbe  to  him,  rising.  "I  liave  taken,  may 
it  please  you,  a  lesson  in  philosophy  in  your  al)sence. 
You  have  talked  a  ijreat  deal  to  me  about  tlie  sovereign 
good  :  I  have  found  three  things  to-day,  a  horse,  a  dog, 
and  a  woman."  —  "  St.  Augustine  has  enumerated  two 
liundred  and  eighty-eight  opinions  on  this  subject. 
I'liiJu.sophers  can  not  agree  on  this  chapter.   Accord- 


THE    CHIEF   GOOD.  179 

ing  to  Crates  the  sovereign  good  is  a  prosperous 
vovaj;;e ;  accordino-  to  Arclivtas,  it  is  wiiinin<i|;  a 
battle  ;  according  to  Chrvsippus,  it  is  the  building 
of  a  sui)erb  edifice  ;  according  to  Epicurus,  it  is  pleas- 
ure ;  according  tu  Palenion,  it  is  eloquence;  accord- 
ing to  ileraclitus.  it  is  fortnne  ;  according  to  SinidU- 
ides,  it  is  a  friend  ;  according  to  Euripides,  it  is  the 
love  of  a  beautiful  Nvonuin.  The  ancient  philosophers 
were  no  wi<er  than  you  are,  monsieur  le  chevalier. 
We  will,  if  you  please,  continue  oiu-  lesson  as  Ave  re- 
turn to  the  house.  The  sovereign  good,  monsieur,  is 
God ;  God,  who  alone  can,  at  all  hours  and  at  all 
seasctns,  respond  to  the  aspirations  of  our  souls,  the  rest 
is  all  vanity.  What  is  human  friendship,  the  glory  of  a 
battle,  the  love  of  a  beautiful  woman  ?  a  little  smoke 
which  passes  by  and  blinds  us.  All  is  vanity,  all  is  de- 
cepti<  m.  Where  we  seek  for  liberty,  we  find  only  the 
slavery  which  is  imposed  by  grandeur.  T\"here  we 
f^eek  peace  in  si.ilitude,  we  find  only  disfpiiet  and 
agitation.  Where  we  seek  j^leasure,  we  find  only 
bitterness.  Mistaken  good,  shadows,  illusions !  The 
Soul  is  wortliv  of  heaven  ;  all  that  is  eartldv  is  un- 
worthy  of  it.  The  soul  is  formed  to  love  God,  to  re- 
turn to  heaven  its  true  home.  God  has  revealed 
himself  everywhere,  to  the  most  barbarous  nations. 
Hear  Seneca:  Nidla  qulppe,  gens  unquamy  —  "Oli, 
tiie  devil,  if  you  talk  Latin,  you  will  not  know  what 
you  afe  saying;  for  my  jjart  I  will  not  listen  any 
longer.  Come,  all  this  about  a  Latin  ])hrase,  I  will 
sjtai'e  you  the  rest.  To  end  the  matter,  I  amof  y<»ur 
opinion  :  the  sovereign  good  is  God  ;  ])ut  God  is  ])hiced 
too  high  for  me,  and  meanwhile,  until  I  rise;  to  licav- 
iii,   you  will   not  consider  it  amiss,  my  dear  ubliu, 


1 80  BOUFFI.ERS. 

tliat  I  should  look  for  the  sovereign  irood  in  a  irood 
lioif-c,  a  pretty  woman,  and  a  tine  dog.  ()li,  if  yon 
knew  how  brio-litly  the  sun  was  sliinins:  yonder."  — 
"■  Be  off,  you  profane  fell"w.  he  off  sinner,  i^ive 
tlie  rein  to  your  had  passions  I"  Thereupon  IJuuliiers 
spurred  hi^  horse. 

It  was  all  over  with  ]iiin,hc  had  found  the  soverei,i;-n 
srood  of  the  wc.rld  —  love  and  poetry.  On  that  day, 
tlie  only  one  in  his  life,  he  was  in  love,  he  was  a 
])i>ct !  However,  once  airain,  in  his  old  ag-e,  we  shall 
lin<l  him  a  poet,  thanks  to  tJiat  sublime  magician 
called  memory. 

II. 

The  rest  of  his  days,  the  abbe,  the  chevalier,  the 
Marrpiis  of  Boufflers,  was  only  a  man  of  wit,  more 
or  less  of  a  rhymster.  He  was  content  with  the  in- 
heritance of  the  Grammonts,  the  Bellegardes,  the 
St.  Simons,  the  Ilichelieus.  There  are  plenty  of  ablies, 
chevaliers,  and  manpiises,  who  could,  I  imagine, 
live  brilliantly  on  a  much  smaller  one.  Saint  Lam- 
bert had  surnamed  him  Yoisenon  the  Great.  There 
is  his  portrait. 

Bouiilers  had  not  an  opportunity  to  return  to  the 
valley  of  the  milkmaid.  At  the  end  of  a  few  days 
he  had  to  leave  for  Paris,  in  obedience  to  the  orders  of 
King  Stanislaus.  "  "What  was  he  to  become  in 
Paris  V  A  bishop,  said  his  mother.  He  gallantly 
entered  the  seminary  of  St.  Sulpice,  with  a  lively 
song  on  Ins  lips.  The  seminary  was  not  the  exact 
counterpart  of  the  valley  of  Luneville.  One  did 
not  meet  there  in  the  morning,  under  a  smiling  sun, 


Ti:r   JIOMANOE    O?   ALTNE.  181 

a  prcttj  milkmrad  with  a  red  petticoat.  Onr  cliev- 
filier  was  at  first  most  heartily  wearied.  He  soon 
l)egaTi  to  regret  liis  unrestrained  lihtrtv,  his  English 
horse,  his  bonnding  dugs.  As  he  conld  not  pray  to 
God  sincerely,  he  did  not  pray  at  all.  It  was  nioi-e 
simple  and  more  catholic.  He  wished  to  get  ont  of 
the  place.  Hom'  conld  he  do  so  ?  How  do  so  withont 
scandal,  or  how  give  ])iquancy  to  the  scandal  ?  Bonf- 
flers  took  counsel  with  himself.  Tlie  idea  struck  him 
of  writing  ont  his  adventui-e  with  Aline.  He  tiimmed 
liis  pen,  and  devoted  himself  to  it.  "  I  give  myself 
up  to  yon,  my  pen.  Until  now  I  have  led  you ;  lead 
me  now,  and  command  your  master.  Eelate  to  me 
some  history  which  I  do  not  knoAV.  It  is  the  same 
thing  to  me  whether  you  commence  at  the  middle 
or  the  end."  This  is  the  prettiest  commencement 
j)ossible  for  a  French  tale.  What  is  strange  is,  that 
the  pen,  thus  master  of  a  lawless  mind,  commences 
simply  at  the  beginning.  But  let  us  continue  :  "  As 
for  y<,)U,  my  readers,  I  notify  you  in  advance,  that  it  '3 
for  my  i)leasure,  and  not  for  yours,  that  I  write. 
Vuu  are  surrounded  Mith  friends,  mistresses,  and 
lovei-s  —  you  are  not  obliged  to  resort  to  me  to  anuisc 
yourselves;  but  I,  for  my  part,  am  alone,  and  M'ish 
to  get  as  good  company  out  of  myself  as  I  can." 
The  entire  story  is  in  this  chai'ming  tone.  If  it  was 
in  twelve  volumes  it  would  be  read  with  delight, 
l>ut  it  scarcely  contains  twelve  pages.  You  will 
readily  understand  that  the  ]ien  has  nothing  better 
to  relate  than  the  story  of  the  mi]k-))ai].  By  little 
and  little,  einl)oldene<I  hy  tlir  ti-nlli  nf  tlic  iirst  ]')age, 
ir  Jaiinc-lies  into  all  tjic  fantasies  of  fiction  ;  it  seeks 
to  t.-rnicnt    I'xiutlleri-,  1)y  rc|»r('S(.'nting  to  liiin  under 


182  "BouvFLi::;;s. 

pleasant  r  ictaiiio3i?hc?es,  tiro  evor-Bmiling  furm  of 
Aline.  Now  slie  is  an  adcmble  nuirchione??,  now 
a  quoon  of  (-Jolconria,  at  last  a  little  dhl  woman — ■ 
still  amiable,  cli-^l  in  ])alm-leaves.  Time  undertook 
to  make  a  liistory  almost  out  of  this  little  story. 
I)Outtlers  divined  his  life  so  well  that  he  has  sketched 
it  out  th(U"e  in  broad  Hues. 

This  story  forms  the  entire  works  of  JJoufilers; 
what  he  siibseqiienilv  wrote  was  but  a  islight  ara- 
besque to  frame  this  pretty  pastel. 

Boufflers  remained  but  a  short  time  at  St.  Sulpice. 
lie  went  into  the  w<irld,  even  the  nay  world  :  he 
went  to  Versailles.  Accord inii;  to  Ijachauinont,  he 
read  his  storv  to  Madame  Dubarrv.  She  was  so 
charmed  with  tlie  milkmaid,  that  she  conceived 
from  that  moment  the  idea  of  havino:;  cows  at  the 
Trianon,  of  milking  them  M'ith  her  })retty  and  al- 
inc/st  royal  hands,  and  im  certain  days,  when  en- 
nu"ed,  dressing:  herself  in  a  white  bodice  and  red 
petticoat,  in  order  to  charm  Louis  XV.  once  more 
by  till?  pastoral  disgniise. 

In  less  than  a  few  weeks  the  story  spread  from 
n.oath  to  mouth,  from  great  lords  to  nuirchionesses. 
Mv>re  than  a  thousand  manuscript  copies  were  scat- 
tered about  Versailles  and  Paris.  The  seminary  of 
St.  Sulpice  itself  was  not  exempt.  Everybody  was 
outraged,  and  everybody  applauded — l}t>ufflers  at 
the  head  of  them.  The  story  was  printed  and  signed 
with  the  initials  of  the  name  of  the  author.  When 
the  scandal,  going  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  semi- 
nary, the  Abbe  de  BonfHers  became  again  the  Che- 
valier de  Boufilers.  One  fine  moraing  he  laid  aside 
the  bands,  mounted  on   horseback,  and  set  out  gal- 


LETTER    TO    GKIilM.  183 

lantly,  his  sword  by  Lis  side,  for  the  campaign  of 
ilauover.  King  Stanishms  had  bestowed  npon  him 
fi-om  childhood  forty  thonsand  livres  revenue  in 
l>cnefices.  How  could  an  abbe  aljandon  such  bene- 
lices?  Eeassnrc  yourself.  At  the  same  time  that 
he  to(jk  the  swurd,  he  also  assumed  tlie  cmss  <>f 
Malta,  the  strange  privilege  of  participating  in  the 
performance  of  the  holy  offices  in  surplice  and  in 
nnif.'rin,  otfering  thus  the  cm-ions  spectacle  of  a  pi-ior, 
captain  of  hussars.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  Grinnn  on 
tliis  subject,  of  which  tliis  is  the  best/ passage : — 

"  I  was  on  the  high  road  to  furtnne.  "Who  k:r.  ws 
but  that  a  lew  more  intrigues  miglit  not  have  placed 
Hie  at  the  head  <»f  the  clergy  ?  But  I  likod  better  to 
be  aid-de-camp  in  the  army  of  Soul»ise.  Trahit 
una  quernqne  volvjjtas.  Do  you  count  as  nothing 
the  cry  of  indignation,  which  was  raised  at  the  free- 
dom of  my  conduct  ?  Thev  were  the  fools  who  cried, 
you  will  tell  me.  Truly  so  nnich  the  worse.  It  v.ould 
have  been  better  if  they  had  been  the  people  cf 
sense,  for  thev  would  have  made  less  noise.  Tno 
fools  have  the  advantage  of  numbers,  and  it  is  thr.t 
which  decides.  It  is  no  use  f«ir  us  to  make  war  0:1 
tlicm,  we  shall  n«>t  weaken  them;  they  will  ahvays 
be  tlic  masters.  Always  the  kings  f>f  the  universe, 
tliey  will  continue  to  dictate  the  law.  There  will 
n:)t  be  a  ]>raftice  <^>r  a  usage  introduced  of  which 
tliey  {:re  not  the  authors.  In  iine,  they  always  force 
the  jteople  of  sense  to  speak,  and  almost  to  think 
like  themselves,  because  it  is  in  the  order  of  things 
that  the  con<jUL'red  should  sp-ak  the  language  of  their 
coufpierors.  In  accordanct;  with  the  extreme  vener- 
a*i(m,  with  which  you  sec  that  I  am  imbued  for  tho 


184:  BOVFFTKKS. 

&npreme  power  of  lools,  am  I  \n'on}^  fur  seel^ing  t< 
be  in  ftivor  with  tlicm  ?  and  slionld  I  not  regard  iny 
reconciliation  Avitli  the  sovereigns  of  the  world  as 
tiie  best  act  of  idv  lifo  (  l^ardon  nie  foi'  divertino; 
mvself  a  little  in  the  course  of  my  reasonin2:s,  it  is 
to  aid  niyselt^  and  yon  as  well,  in  snp])orting  their 
tedionsness !  Moreover,  Horace,  yonr  friend  and 
yonr  model,  permits  ns  to  laugh  in  s])eaking  the 
truth ;  and  the  first  philoso])her  of  anticpiity  was 
snrelv  not  Ileraclitns.  I  onu-ht,  von  will  tell  me,  in 
kccordancc  with  my  res]>cct  for  fools,  to  have  quitted 
mv  callino-  withont  assmninij:  another;  but  fools  have 
told  me  that  one  must  have  a  calling  in  society.  I 
proposed  to  them  to  take  that  of  a  man  (»f  letters. 
TLey  told  me  to  take  care  not  to  do  so,  for  I  had  too 
mnch  wit  tor  that.  I  asked  them  what  I  shonld  do 
then,  and  this  was  the  reply  :  '  Some  ages  ago  we 
W'ished  you  to  be  a  gentleman  ;  it  is  our  will  at  pres- 
ent that  vvery  gentleman  should  go  to  the  war." 
Thereupon  I  had  a  blue  coat  made,  assumed  the 
cross  of  Malta,  and  was  off." 

L'otifflcrs  was  brave  in  war,  and  gay,  but  too  much 
of  a  philosopher.  After  a  sword  thrust  he  reflected. 
A  soldier  shoidd  not  i-etlect  on  the  field  of  battle. 
Boufliers,  l)esides,  always  had  another  profession  in 
addition  to  his  a]>parent  ouc  —  a  libertine  abbe,  a 
philosophical  soldier,  a  satii-ical  courtier,  a  di]ilomat- 
ic  song-writer,  a  reimblican  courtier.  In  1702  he 
emigrated,  and  from  the  dejiths  of  a  savage  solitude 
undertook  to  defend  liberty.  lie  wrote  a  book  on 
fvce  will.  At  the  end  of  his  career,  having  run  well 
Ihrruofii  t^jC  romid  t»f  follies,  he  wrote  on  hvmcm 
reazon^  i.i  the  tnie  style  of  an  academician. 


TURNS    PAINIER.  185 

After  t]i3  campaign  of  Hesse,  lie  made  a  j'.vr.rnoy 
ill  Switzerland,  staff  in  Land,  his  bag^rago  on  his 
hack,  a  true  artist  journer.  Yon  liavo  read  the 
account  of  this  lonrnev  in  liis  letters  to  his  mother, 
charming  letters  where  every  word  says  something. 
As  a  painter  of  pastel  portraits,  Bonfflers  achieved 
innnmeral)le  snccesses  at  Geneva.  lie  only  n>ked  a 
crown  a  day  to  paint  a  husband,  but  he  painted  the 
porti-ait  of  the  wife  in  the  bargain. 

On  his  return  from  his  journey  in  Switzerland,  the 
Marshal  de  Castries  had  him  appointed  governor  of 
Senegal,  and  the  island  of  Gorea.  There  everybody 
was  content  under  his  rule,  except  himself.  lie  soon 
returned,  abandoning  himself  body  and  soul  as  for- 
merly, to  the  intoxications  of  a  careless  youth,  all 
blooming  with  amonrs,  jokes,  and  trifling  verses.  His 
youth  lasted  nearly  iifty  years :  it  seemed  as  if  time 
passed  without  touching  him.  He  was  of  the  small 
number  of  thse  who  lived  thirty  yeai'S  in  a  quarter 
of  a  cc^.turv.  He  religio'isly  followed  all  the  frivol- 
ities nf  iVisluDU —  cluiiis  of  three  colors,  gold  and  sil- 
ver end)roidei-v,  bugles  and  spangles,  wins  with 
(pieues  and  tVizzled,  in  line,  .is  he  said  himself,  they 
liad  then  discovered  the  important  secret  of  imtting 
on  a  nuvn's  back  a  ])alette  garnished  with  all  tints 
and  all  shades.  "These  coats,"  said  Grinnu,  "  give 
our  young  ])eoi)le  at  the  cnurt  a  decided  ad\antage 
over  the  finest  of  Xurend)erg  ddUs." 

In  1788,  somewhat  wearied  with  noise,  dress,  fetes, 
and  women,  Boufders.  at  last  siding  with  age,  and 
oncludingthathehad  reaclu  d  fifty,  made  the  prelim- 
"iiary  visits  necessary  for  iMlmission  to  the  Acadi'uiy. 
lie  alrc.idvbelonjred  to  the  academics  of  Xancv  and 

IG* 


186  liOUFFLERS. 

Lyons,  liic  Fivncli  Academy  received  him  as  ac 
old  spoiled  child.  His  discourse  was  painfully  serious. 
lie  \ve!it  I'jiek  to  the  drluirc,  the  creation  of  the  world, 
to  cliiios  —  a  louij,-  road  leading  to  nothing.  Here 
ends  ]>(UilUer8,  the  true  JJoutilers,  of  whom  liistory 
will  ivtaiu  ])leasant  recollections.  The  Academy  was 
the  tdud)  of  that  wit  which  might  have  rivalled  Ilam- 
iltou  in  grace,  and  V(tltaire  iu  ])oint.  So  here  lies 
the  Chevalier  de  Bouttlers,  not  the  only  one  whom 
the  Academy  has  killed. 

There  is  alr-o  another  ]>ouflle,rs,  known  under  the 
name  of  the  llarquis  de  Boufilers,  who  married,  was 
dei)uty  to  tlic  states-general,  tuunded  a  cluh  with 
lyialouat  and  La  Kochefoucault,  wrote  a  treatise  on 
free  v^ill.,  became  an  agriculturist,  and  died  soberly 
in  1815.*  But  this  one  has  nothing  in  common  with 
ours.  It  is  the  same,  you  insi.st,  it  is  still  the  Buufflers 
Avho  loved  so  poetically  the;  fair  J^l'Jl.!  ;■>  the  valley 
Avith  her  pot  of  milk.  You  are  right.  I'ou  remiiul 
me  of  a  last  trait  which  I  will  relate  to  y<ui.  But  a 
word  iirst,  in  i)assing,  in  judgment  of  the  poet  and 
]  lis.  work. 

BoufHers  was  the  li'V'  and  soul  of  the  gay  and  dis- 
solute society,  wh'.cb,  1T90,  dispersed  for  ever — ■ 
tlie  society  which  lived  on  joy  and  festi\  ity  without 
care  for  death,  lie  skimmed  lightly  in  his  vagrant 
career  (t\er  the  gilded  reign  of  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour, llu'  iiiiiierial  sway  of  Madame  Dubarry,  the 
adorable  grace  of  ]\[arie- Antoinette.  He  was  tlie 
choice  wit  of  the  court  of  the  king  of  Prussia,  and 

*  He  Jipcl  at  Paris,  and  was  buried  at  Pore  la  Chaise,  where  h-.s 
totnh  is  to  be  ri-copiiiscd  I'V  Ihis  inscri|)tic)n,  worthy  of  an  anci'J:'.'. 
j/iiilosopher :  "  Ni/  frit  /ids,  heUcvc  that  1  am  asleep" 


A  TRANSLATOR.  18T 

of  the  kinir  of  Poland.  lie  was  evervwliere  in  tlie 
same  season,  but  particularly  on  the  roads:  he  was 
ihc  most  indefatiirable  traveller  on  dry  land  of  his 
lime.  It  was  said  of  him  :  "  lie  is  the  most  errant  of 
kniiihts ;"  and  everybody  knows  the  charming  re- 
mark  of  another  wit.  M.  de  Tressant  met  him  on 
the  hiiifhway.  "Chevalier,  I  am  deliifhted  tu  hud 
yuu  at  Jiome !"  In  turning  over  at  random  the 
slight  Collection  of  Eoutiiers,  we  shall  find  the  echo 
of  his  tiuie,  already  antiquated,  the  scentless  roses 
with  which  he  decked  the  bodices  of  liis  noble 
mistresses. 

But  must  we  look  fei-ther  into  his  work?  His  only 
production,  worthy  of  a  poet,  is  the  piece  entitled 
the  Heart,  in  which  the  wit  makes  us  almost  pardou 
the  licentiousness.  Champlbrt  called  all  this  coufec- 
tiouary.  It  is  well  enough  when  the  poet  says  it 
himself  to  some  indolent  duchess  ;  but  these  gay 
warbliu^rs  can  not  easily  obtain  auditoi'S  without  their 
appropriate  accessories.  It  was  in  this  that  the 
charm  of  this  improvisator  consisted,  as  he  always  had 
some  rhyme  and  wit  at  his  comm?nd,  in  t-.u'i*  for 
Madame  Dugazon,  the  Prince  du  Ligne,  the  Duke 
de  Choi.seul,  Madame  de  Luxembourg,  Madame 
]>ranchu,  the  cat  of  Madame  *  *  *,  the  Duke  de 
Xivernais,  or  for  any  other  passing  fancy. 

After  having  tried  his  liand  on  light  poetry,  lie 
undertook  to  translate  the  odes  of  Horace,  Seneca's 
!^[axims,  some  verses  of  DaTilc's  P;.r,x!isr,  some 
9r\v.v/i\y.  of  Ariosto.  ^fay  these  poets  pardon  liiui  I 
H»*  ^'lUn  translated  the  ideas,  he  has  not  l)een  alilc  1o 
reproduce  the  col.jr  wliich  is  tlie  life,  s])l('udor,  and 
])eri'imie  of  all  ]»oetry. 


ISS  BOUI'KLKRS. 

After  verse  ctiine  prose,  Mhicli  is  not  of  tlie  worst. 
li,oinein])cr  tlic  letters,  rcMiKMn))er  Aline.  There  ure 
other  letters  and  nther  tales.  We  can  still  iind  a 
charm  in  vc-ivikUw^  f/w  Derr/'sc.  A/t^ytsf  an  in- 
terest, too,  in  some  ])aji-es  of  philosophy  torn  out  of  the 
Universal  Encyclopedia,  and  from  his  work  on  I^Ve3 
Will.  This  latter  work,  such  as  it  is,  deserves  notice. 
At  an  eai'lier  age,  l^ontHers  would  liave  written  ii 
clianning  book  upon  this  subject,  in  the  style  of 
Sterne.  lie  announces  at  ihe  start  that  he  is  ])a8- 
sing  through  unknown  regions  to  an  unknown  end. 
lie  loses  himself  at  the  very  first  step  among  the 
thousand  barren  ])aths  of  metaphysics.  It  would 
have  n;>cded  nil  the  ]iowers  of  his  youth  to  have 
lined  tli...;y  ])aths  with  tlowers  and  to  have  en- 
ticed us  within  tlicMu.  lie  has,  however,  here  and 
there  ])iOserved  the  ingenious  turns,  the  delicate 
grace,  tht  gav  reasoning  of  his  time.  He  throws  no 
light  on  the  subject,  but  he  sometimes  approaches 
the  pith  of  the  matter  in  a  hai)})y  manner.  He 
scatters,  by  chance,  I  imagine,  ideas  which  are  ima- 
ges, arguments  which  are  pictures.  His  lK)ok  is 
nseful  in  this  respect,  that  it  proves  that  the  Innnan 
mind  will  never  rise  to  these  inaccessible  heights. 

A  graceful  little  volume  could  l)e  made  up  from 
the  thoughts  which  Boufflers  has  scattered  along  the 
highways. 

"  It  is  with  the  riches  of  thought  as  with  other  riches :  we 
liecome  more  avaricious  as  we  become  richer. 

"  The  ])hilogo])her  deprived  of  his  wealth,  resembles  an  ath- 
lete slri|i|)ril  for  comliat. 

"No  one  knows  ll)e  wortli  of  his  own  mind.  It  is  strange 
thai  the  poorest  are  the  most  <;onfent. 


POSTKAIl   J!Y  THE  PKINCE  DE  LIuKr\  1S& 

•*  The  man  of  letters  alone  of  all  men,  according  to  the  beau- 
tiful expression  of  one  of  the  ancients,  lives  with  unconcealed 
aims. 

"  Habit  is  a  second  nature.  There  is,  i)erhaps,  a  third, 
which  is  called  imitation. 

"  Fame  likes  people  to  make  advances  to  her.  There  are 
some  of  whom  she  would  not  know  what  to  say,  if  they  did 
not  take  the  trouble  to  tell  her. 

"  Hope  is  a  jiaymentin  advance  on  all  goods. 

"  Kinjrs  like  better  to  be  amused  than  adored. 

"It  is  only  divinity  that  has  a  sutficient  fund  of  good  nature 
not  to  be  wearied  with  all  the  homage  wjiicli  is  rendered  to  it." 

Among  tlic  many  descriptions  of  13(,miHcfs,  I 
ovtract  some  lines  Ly  tlie  Prince  de  Ligne,  avIio 
kiiuw  thoroniihly  the  heart  and  mind  of  everybody. 
"  M.  de  ]5onfilers  thought  mnch,  but  unfortunately 
it  was  ah\'ays  <>n  the  passing  topic.  One  might  well 
wish  to  collect  all  the  ideas  which  he  sijuandered 
together  with  his  time  and  his  mone}'.  Perhai)S  lu^  had 
^';'>ic  genius  than  he  could  control,  when  the  lire  of 
his  youth  was  in  full  force.  This  genius  must  have 
lxi,n,  not  only  independent  itself,  but  must  have 
coi.trolled  its  possessor ;  therefore  was  it  that  it 
siivne  at  once  with  the  ca[)ricions  brilliancy  of  a 
^'ill-o'-the-wisp,  a  perfect  and  refined  delicacy,  and  a 
Wiiht  grace  which  is  never  frivolous.  The  talent  of 
giving  ]>oint  to  an  idea  by  means  of  antithesis,  is 
one  of  the  distinctive  qualities  of  nis  mind,  to  which 
nothing  is  foreign.  Happily  he  does  not  know 
everything.  He  lias  plucked  the  flower  of  all  knowl- 
edge, and  he  will  sm'])rise  by  his  ])rofundity  tiiose 
who  thought  him  su]ierlicial,  and  by  his  snperhciali- 
ty  all  those  who  have  discovered  how  pi'ojbund  he 
C'.uld  be.    The  basis  of  his  character  is  an  unljoundeJ 


IDO  BOUKFLERT. 

goodness  of  heart.  ITe  could  not  support  the  idea 
of  a  surtbriug  l)cin<;;  he  would  deprive  hiinccl:  of 
hrcad  to  su})port  even  a  wicked  person,  and  above 
nil  an  encniv.  '■'■Poor  rofjue  P''  he  would  %.ij.  lie 
had  a  servant  on  his  estate  whom  everylio-iv  de- 
nounced  as  a  thief,  in  spite  of  which  he  alwa\>'  re- 
tained her;  and  being  asked  why,  answered,  "^.rho 
would  take  her  ?"  His  lauijh  was  like  that  of  a  child, 
lie  carried  his  head  somewhat  inclined.  He  had  :i 
habit  of  twisting  his  thumbs  before  him  like  Harle- 
quin, or  rubl»ing  his  hands  behind  his  back,  as  if  he 
was  warmin"-  himself.  His  eves  were  small  ani] 
pleasing,  and  had  a  smiling  expression.  There  was 
sometliing  peculiarly  amia])le  in  the  expre.ssivni  of 
his  face.  There  was  a  graceful  simplicity,  gayut}', 
and  artlessness  in  his  manner.  He  had  sometimes 
the  stupid  looks  of  La  Fontaine.  You  would  saj" 
that  he  was  thinking  of  nothing  when  he  was  thin!:- 
ing  the  most.  He  did  not  willingly  put  himself 
forward,  and  was  all  the  more  ap})reciatcd  for  his 
modesty.  His  manners  were  so  thoroughly  amiable, 
that  he  never  showed  any  malice  except  in  an  occa- 
sional look  or  smile.  He  so  much  distrusted  his  turn 
for  epigram,  that  he  perhaps  leaned  too  nnich  to  tlie 
opposite  side.  He  seems  to  be  pr(jfuse  in  his  praises 
in  order  to  prevent  his  satirical  vein  from  displaying 
itself." 

This  slight  portrait  represents  Boufflers  at  tlie  ap 
]^roac]i  of  age,  Boufflers,  after  he  had  become  an 
acr.lemician,  father  of  a  family,  a  politician. 

In  spite  of  his  worsh'p  of  liberty,  he  deserted  the 
Conbtituent  Assembly  on  the  10th  of  August,  and 
departed   witii  his   family,  like   a  true  phil()Sf)pher 


EXILK,  191 

who  sr.linntv  to  everything,  for  the  court  of  Prussia 
whore  he  Avas  received  with  open  arms  hj  Prince 
licnrj.  From  there  he  went  to  the  court  of  Poland, 
'Anere  he  was  desirous  of  founding  a  French  colony. 
His  emigration,  which  lasted  eight  years,  was  not  al- 
together insupportable.  He  lived,  although  at  the 
court,  and  in  a  time  of  war,  a  rpiiet,  almost  a  studiocis 
life,  playing  with  his  daughter,  and  showing  her  how, 
for  better  ur  worse,  rhyme  is  joined  to  reason;  loving 
his  wife,  whom  he  had  married,  a  widow,  who  was 
handsome,  and  had  none  too  nnich  sense;  walking  in 
the  open  air,  rain  or  shine,  accoi'ding  to  his  custom. 
Although  almost  the  same  as  an  exile,  he  still  kept 
horses  and  dogs ;  he  was,  therefore,  the  least  to  be 
pitif  (1  of  all  tlie  emigres. 

In  1800,  he  returned  to  France,  but  no  longer  as 
courtier  or  deputy,  scarce  even,  academician ;  he  was 
altogetlier  undeceived  in  regard  to  the  vanities  of 
life  ;  took  refuge  in  a  little  country  estate,  which  he 
almost  transformed  into  a  farm;  aiul  became  an  a ""ri- 
culturist,  in  all  the  simplicity  of  the  patriarchs.  He 
built  a  little,  planted  a  great  deal,  and  cultivated 
after  his  style,  that  is  to  say,  as  an  optimist.  His 
harvests  were  fine;  so  were  his  vintages.  He  had 
remained  faithful  to  the  friendships  which  he  had 
formed  in  his  happy  days. — ''  Here  is  my  rhyming  dic- 
tionary," said  he,  pointing  to  his  plough  and  harrow; 
'Mu?.'(;  are  my  poems,"  said  he,  pointing  to  his  wheat, 
his  cabbages,  his  hay,  and  his  oats;  "here,"  he  con- 
tinu'il,  "I  am  always  nobly  inspired  ;  I  commune 
with  Nature ;  it  is  a  ])ir>us  work,  which  will  gain  me 
paidon  fur  all  my  trilling  productions." 


192  nOUFFLEKS. 

III. 

But  I  am  impatient  to  arrive  at  tliis  last  picture, 
which  will  couiplete  my  sketch  of  ]>uufflers. 

Amid  the  ever-recm-riiig  follies  of  his  long  youth, 
Bouillers  had  now  and  then  found  time  to  ask  newtj 
of  Aline,  who  had  not  exactly  become  queen  of  Gal- 
conda.  lie  has  related  in  A-arions  ways,  in  holh 
prose  and  verse,  her  real  history.  In  1800,  on 
returning  from  Berlin  to  Paris,  he  was  desiruus 
at  all  hazards,  of  seeing  Aline  again,  or,  at  least, 
the  scene  of  their  early  love ;  he  wished  to  rein- 
vigorate  his  poor  heart,  beaten  by  a  thousand  rose- 
water  tempests,  in  the  fresh  fomitains  of  that  spring- 
like love  which  had  surprised  him  in  the  morning  of 
life. 

He  stopped  at  Lnneville.  But  where  was  the  en- 
chanted ]Kdace  of  Stanislaus?  the  court  of  Madame  de 
Bouillers  i  The  poet  took  a  horse  at  the  post-house, 
and  followed  the  road  to  the  valley.  It  was  in  the 
spring;  he  fonnd  natnre  again  all  fresh  and  balmy, 
as  heretofore;  the  same  verdant  and  leafy  crowns 
on  the  two  hills ;  the  warbling  groves ;  the  fields 
already  waving  with  the  harvest;  the  budding  or- 
chards ;  the  smoking  hamlet ;  and  the  spire  losing 
itself  with  the  music  of  its  bells,  in  the  sky. — "There 
is  but  one  thing  wanting  here,"  murmured  Boufflers, 
"  it  is  Aline,  it  is  my  love,  it  is  my  youth  !  It  is  in 
vain  that  nature  sheds  abroad  all  her  treasures,  and 
sings  in  all  her  varied  notes ;  she  will  never  be  Lr:t 
the  frame,  whereof  the  passions  of  man  will  form  the 
picture.  But  ^vhy  do  I  speak  so  seriously  ?  I  have 
the  air  of  a  philosopher,     Alas  !    is  it  a  philosoph.31 


ALINE    IN   OLD    AGE.  193 

vlio  should  return  here  ?     Come,  let  us  be  young 
still,  if  it  be  possible  !" 

Boutilers  asked  a  moment's  youth  from  the  magic 
power  of  memory ;  he  dismounted  from  his  horse, 
stretched  himself  out  on  the  grass,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  old  elm-tree,  on  the  bank  of  the  brook,  and  looked 
toward  the  skirts  of  the  wood,  as  if  Aline  were 
to  reappear  with  her  pot  and  her  red  petticoat. 
It  was  in  vain  that  he  souglit  to  deceive  himself; 
he  was  not  enough  of  a  poet  to  see  shadows. — 
"Ah,  yes!"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "the  Abbe  Por- 
quet  was  right :  God  alone  is  unchangeable ;  God 
has  not  made  our  souls  for  earth,  except  when  we 
are  twenty,  and  meet  an  Aline  upon  the  road. 

He  wished  to  pursue  his  disenchantment  to  the 
end  ;  he  remounted  his  horse,  with  the  intention  of 
breakfasting  ut  the  little  cottage,  where  he  should, 
doubtless,  l-jarii  some  news  of  the  heroine  of  the  sole 
romance  of  his  life.  He  dismounted  at  the  threshold 
of  a  S'trrv  inn,  whose  sign  gave  no  good  promise. 
He  entered,  and  called  for  something  to  eat,  seating 
liimself,  at  the  same  time,  at  a  rustic  table,  still  wet 
with  the  last  bumper.  The  hostess  began  forthwith 
to  break  the  eggs  and  tu  scrape  the  chicory.  Boufllers 
wanted  to  speak  to  her  aljout  Aline,  Avithout  knowing 
how  to  begin,  when  he  saw  a  good  old  farmer's  wife 
enter,  in  a  woollen  petticoat,  Avh(»  apju'oached  the  lire 
with  an  eartiien  jxtt  in  hei'hand. — "  I  am  notdeceived ; 
it  is  indeed  she;  it  is  Aline:  it  is  Elizabeth!" 

The  old  fanner's  wife  let  iier  ])itcher  fall  with  sur- 
])rise;  but  this  time  Boufllers  did  not  sjiring  foi'ward 
t)  pick  if  up. — "What!  it  is  you,  monsieur  the  chev- 
alier!    Heavens!    what  a  meeting!    niy  heart  is  all 

17 


194  BOUFFLERS. 

ji  a  flutter!" — "This  meeting  does  not  equal  the 
first  one,"  said  Boutflers,  looking  at  his  pt>or  Aline 
fi'om  head  to  foot;  "neither  is  it  a  pot  of  milk  to-day." 
' — "  It  is  indeed  true ;  we  hud  iiot  gray  hairs  down 
there  by  the  brook." — "  Give  me  a  kiss,"  said  Bouf- 
€eir.,  "this  time  we  can  do  so  before  witnesses." 

They  embraced  with  a  warmth  which  touched 
tne  hostess. — "You  will  breaktast  v/itli  me." — "Yes, 
if  you  will  come  and  breakfast  at  my  house,  two 
steps  from  here ;  yoii  know  a  widow  of  sixty-seven 
is  not  much  to  be  feared  ;  come,  I  have  much  to  say 
to  you." 

Boufflers  paid  the  hostess  the  value  of  some  twenty 
omelettes  and  thirty  salads,  and  followed  Aline,  who 
had  loosened  the  horse's  bridle  to  lead  him.  Tlie 
poor  woman  was  so  delighted  that  she  talked  without 
stopping  to  take  breath. — "  Only  think,  that  evei-y 
time  that  I  see  a  fine  horse,  the  adventure  of  the 
spilled  milk  immediately  comes  to  my  mind.  Xow, 
even  on  seeing  this  one,  I  immediately  thought  of 
you.  Ah,  if  you  knew  how  often  I  have  passed  Ijy 
there,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  it!  I  knew  very 
well  beforehand  that  I  should  not  meet  you,  but 
I  was  none  the  less  happy  in  passing.  "We  acted 
very  foolishly  there ;  but,  as  the  proverb  says, '  Fooling 
with  two  is  always  agreeable.'  I  have  no  regrets ;  we 
are  young  but  once;  you  could  hardly  believe  how  it 
has  filled  my  life ;  every  year,  in  the  first  days  of 
spring;  but  you  are  going  to  laugh  and  ridicule  me; 
it  is  all  the  same — you  must  know  it — I  go,  led  by  a 
supernatural  power,  and  gather  a  nosegay  on  the 
bank  of  the  brook.  Ah,  yours  has  lasted  a  long 
time !     Come  and  see  thf  nosegay  of  the  past  year." 


PAST    MEMOAIES.  195 

She  took  Boufflers  bj  the  haud,  and  led  him  to  the 
alcove  iu  which  her  bed  stood,  and  showed  him  a 
faded  nosegay  fastened  to  the  serge  curtains  by  a 
consecrated  branch. — "  You  can  not  think,"  said 
Bouiflers,  sighing,  "how  this  recollection  of  my 
youth  has  always  embalmed  my  heart ;  it  has  been 
more  than  the  half  of  ray  life ;  so  much  so,  that  being 
still  young,  and  hardly  expecting  to  see  you  again, 
but  seeking  to  deceive  myself,  I  wrote  a  story  which 
is  called  Alhie  ;  the  first  pages  are  true,  but  the  rest 
is  only  a  romance." — "  Tell  me  that  story ;  I  am 
curious  to  know  what  you  can  have  imagined  about 
me." — "I  have  not  made  you  a  saint  of  the  calendar, 
but  I  have  painted  you  under  such  fresh  and  at- 
tractive colors,  that  evervbodv  has  adored  you  in 
Paris,  in  the  provinces  and  elsewhere." — "  I  have 
no  doubt  of  it.  ^Vhile  I  was  so  heartily  loved, 
I  was  peaceal)ly  planting  my  cabbages,  rocking  my 
babies,  and  thinking  of  you.  This  has  not  prevented 
me  from  being  tolerably  happy;  however,  for  some 
years  back  everything  seems  to  be  leaving  me.  I 
am  a  widow;  I  have  lost  two  children,  the  field  which 
supported  me  has  been  divided  among  others.  I 
have,  however,  a  happy  disposition;  and  when  I 
have  wopt  and  prayed  to  God,  the  time  still  passes 
happily  enough." 

While  she  was  speaking,  she  lit  the  fire.  Boufilers 
cast  liis  eye  about  the  room.  An  antiquated  chamber, 
a  broken  j)avement,  some  worm-eaten  beams,  between 
which  the  spider  had  here  and  there  spun  his  wcli ;  an 
old  oak  dressi-r,  rudely  carved,  covered  with  common 
earthenware  and  ])e\vter  jdattei's ;  small  windows, 
protected  on  the  outside  by  osier  curtains  ;  a  healthj 


196  BOUFFLEKS. 

odor  of  pure  water  and  brown  bread ;  a  gigantic  fire- 
place ;  two  colored  prints  on  the  mantelpiece,  under 
a  rusty  gun,  covered  with  dust;  in  a  word,  a  de- 
lightful atniosj>ln.'re  of  good  homely  poverty,  such 
was  what  UoutHers  found  in  the  house  of  his  asred 
Aline. 

Thev  breakfasted  (javlv,  each,  however,  concealins; 
a  touch  of  melancholv.  After  breakfast,  Boufflers 
asked  to  see  her  little  farm.  lie  coin})i-ehendcd  for  the 
first  time  in  his  lite  the  calm  and  serious  pleasure  the 
earth  atiurds  to  those  who  cultivate  it.  lie  vow'ed  to 
consecrate  his  last  davs  to  airriculture. 

The  two  uld  lovers  embraced  for  the  last  time;  the 
parting  was  touching ;  both  shed  tears ;  they  com 
mended  each  other  to  God,  with  true  devotion.  At 
last,  BoutHers  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  off.  The 
liorse,  who  had  fared  at  least  as  w^ell  as  his  master, 
the  horse  who  had  had  the  best  of  clover  and  the 
best  of  oats,  would  have  traversed  the  little  valley 
at  a  single  bound  ;  but  Boufflers  held  him  in  check, 
wishino-  still  to  breathe  leisurelv  all  the  intoxication  ■ 
of  memory. 

He  returned  to  Luneville,  pale  and  exhausted ;  he 
liad  been  a  poet  that  day,  for  the  second  time  in  his 
life.  How  many  better  known  i-hymers  are  there 
who  have  not  ':een  poets  even  once  in  their  lives  ? 


I^IVAEOL 


Ix  1774,  during  a  Ijeautiful  sunset,  an  exiled 
country  squire,  turned  innkeeper,  was  walking  with 
a  serious  air  before  a  little  inn,  at  Bagnols,  in  Lan- 
guedi  >e,  and  admiring  seven  or  eight  pretty  children, 
very  happy  and  noisy,  whose  father  he  believed 
himself  bv  fjood  riirht  to  be.  lie  was  admiring  at  the 
same  time  a  beautiful  vine  that  he  had  ])lanted  be- 
tween the  door  and  the  Avindow.  A  little  woman, 
rather  pale,  having  at  her  breast  her  sixteenth  child, 
came  out  of  the  inn.  ller  fifteenth  child,  crying, 
clung  to  her  petticoat ;  two  others,  both  very  nearly 
of  the  same  age,  followed  her  to  the  threshold  of  the 
door,  ])ulling  the  ears  of  a  big  dog  which  seemed 
resigned  with  gO(xl  grace  to  the  infliction.  It  was  a 
very  blooming  and  happy  family.  They  all  formed 
a  circle  around  the  poor  dog  —  one  got  upon  his 
back,  another  liamessed  him  with  reeds — one  fast- 
ened a  bell  to  his  paw,  another  threw  a  cat  ujion  his 
back ;  finally  they  all  threw  themselves  pell-mell  upon 
the  ground  with  the  ])oor  beast,  crying  aloud,  frolick- 
ing, and  acting  like  kittens  ])laying  with  the  cinders. 
There  was  not  one  e^en  to  the  child  at  the  breast 

17* 


11)8  RIVAROL. 

will)  did  not  wish  to  be  of  the  party.  He  stretched 
out  Iiis  little  arms,  made  such  a  i  oise,  and  cried  so, 
that  his  mother  was  obliged  to  seat  liim  upon  the 
dog,  who  took  good  ca-re,  like  an  intelligent  creature, 
as  he  was,  not  to  move.  "  I  have  not  counted  them," 
said  the  father,  "  but  I  think  they  are  all  there  ex- 
cept our  three  big  boys  at  school,  and  our  dear 
Antoine."  — "  Nor  have  I  comited  them,"  said  the 
mother,  with  a  smile :  "  but  I  know  very  well  that 
there  are  twelve  here  out  of  the  sixteen.  But  where 
is  Antoine?"  She  looked  through  the  fig-trees  of 
the  garden.  "He  is  gone  as  usual  to  gossip  with 
your  cousin's  daughters." — "It  was  worth  the  trouble 
truly  to  send  him  for  so  long  to  the  Jesuits  at  Avignon. 
He  who  was  called  the  handsome  abbe  will  be  aban- 
doned by  monseigneur  the  bishop  to  our  own  re- 
sources, if  he  continues  to  neglect  his  Latin  in  this 
way.     But  here  comes  Antoine  back." 

The  innkeeper's  wife  went  out  to  meet  the  eldest 
of  the  family.  He  was  a  tall  youth  of  eighteen,  of 
a  noble  and  channing  expression  of  face,  of  ardent 
and  enterprising  mind  ;  in  a  word  it  was  Eivarol. 
"In  truth,  my  dear  child,  during  nearly  the  six 
weeks  that  you  have  been  back  with  us,  you  have 
forgotten  all  your  learning."  —  "Learning!"  said 
the  young  Bivarol,  who  already  knew  how  to  speak 
well ;  "  do  not  be  afraid :  a  man  who  thinks,  always 
knows  more  than  one  who  learns  :  a  man  who  acts 
is  worth  a  thousand  times  more  than  a  man  who 
thinks ;  in  proof  of  which,  there  is  my  father  who 
has  mounted  on  a  stool  to  get  a  bunch  of  grapes  — " 
— "  Your  father  does  not  Imow  what  he  does,  and 
you  do  n't  know  what  you  say.    But  to  sum  up,  some 


AN    mNKEEPER   OF    QUALITY.  199 

common  sense  is  necessary.  Now,  that  you  know 
Greek  and  Latin,  do  you  think  of  passing  your  ■  life 
in  idleness  like  a  gentleman  ?"  — "  Why  not?"  said 
Kivarol,  tossing  his  head  with  an  air  of  natural 
pride.  ""  But  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  be  some- 
thing in  the  world,  I  imagine."  —  "Well,"  exclaimed 
the  young  uum,  '"  I  will  be  a  count."  —  "-  That  is  as 
good  as  anything  else,"  said  tlie  father,  smiling; 
"  but  count  of  what  ?"  —  "  Count  of  Rivaroi  —  it  is 
all  simple  enough.  I  will  set  out  for  Paris  witli  all 
the  ready  money  to  be  had  in  the  cottage.  My 
mother  will  manage  my  affairs  so  well  that  there 
will  lie  more  than  usual.  Once  in  Paris,  I  will 
elbow  my  way  to  greatness  :  I  will  make  my  for- 
tune, i»repare  the  way  for  my  brothers,  portion  my 
sisters,  marrv  a  duchess,  elevate  your  tavern  into  a 
nuinpiisate."  —  "What  nonsense!"  said  the  inn- 
keeper's wife,  with  a  sigh.  "  He  is  no  longer  a  child 
but  a  man  wIkj  has  taken  leave  of  his  senses.  Your 
father  is  the  cause  of  the  mischief;  for  if  he  had  not 
preached  to  his  children  the  glories  of  a  fanciful  de- 
scent— "  —  "  Fanciful  I"  exclaimed  the  Coi'sican, 
I'aising  his  head  to  the  height  of  the  dc)or  of  the 
inn,  '"Carlo  Ri\an>li.  my  great-grandfathei',  was  a 
gran<l  duke  of  Italy  ;  Jacobi  llivaroli,  my  gi-and- 
father,  was  governor  of  Corsica  for  six  months  ; 
moreover,  my  father  held  a  fief  on  the  river  d'Orco." 
-  — "  All  this  does  not  prevent  your  having  been  inn- 
keejter  of  Bagnols  for  nineteen  years.  Do  youi* 
best,  there  is  the  escutcheon  of  your  children." 
And  the  innkee])er''s  wife  jxunted  to  tlu;  liush  of 
mistletoe,  hanging  over  the  inn  door. 

As  he  had  said  he  would,  the  yom)g  IumiioI  soon 


209  RR-AROL. 

set  out  fur  Paris,  accompanied  by  two  law-students, 
whom  he  scarcely  knew  before.  They  made  the 
journey  gayly,  sometimes  on  foot,  sometimes  in  a 
coach,  sometimes  in  a  wagon,  according  to  fair 
weather,  rain,  or  their  purse  which  often  prescribed 
the  simplest  conveyance.  In  spite  of  his  purse,  Riv- 
arol  had  scarce  lost  sight  of  the  paternal  roof  ere  he 
assumed  the  airs  of  a  great  lord.  "When  asked  his 
name  at  an  hotel,  he  answered  with  the  greatest 
coohiess,  the  chevalier,  count,  or  marquis  of  Ilivarol 
and  his  friends.  lie  arrived  at  Paris  toward  the 
end  of  the  autumn  of  ITT-t  —  boldly  alighted  at  the 
Hotel  d'Espagne,  making  his  title  ring  louder  than 
his  crowns,  without  disquieting  himself  the  least  in 
the  world  about  the  morrc>w.  However,  soon  after 
his  arrival  in  Paris,  he  met  certain  sclioolbov- 
friends  who  had  drank  their  pint  at  his  father's 
tavern.  He  feared  that  his  title  of  Count  of  Rivarol, 
announced  before  them,  would  be  received  with 
ridicule.  To  prevent  this,  he  took  another  and  not 
so  high-sounding  a  name,  calling  himself  M.  de  Par- 
cieux,  with  the  consent  of  the  academician  of  that 
name,  who  thought  that  lie  belonged  to  his  family, 
thanks  to  his  wit,  and  the  recommendation  of  D'Al- 
cmbert ;  but  sometime  after,  a  nephew  of  the  savant 
required  him  to  prove  the  right  he  had  to  bear  that 
name,  which  he  could  not  do.  Let  Grimm  speak : 
'•  Pie  has  avenged  himself  very  nobly  in  taking  that 
of  the  chevalier  de  Pivarol,  which  they  say  he  has  no 
better  right  to,  but  which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  that  he 
will  content  himself  with, so  long  as  he  is  not  forced 
to  seek  for  anotlier." 

Almost  on  his  entrance  into  the  literary  world,  he 


HIS    DAJNTTE's    rXFERNCJ.  201 

Bct  to  ^vork  to  stilly  and  translate  Dante,  a  labor 
"wbich  hs  compared  to  that  of  the  young  artists  who 
copy  the  designs  of  Michael  Angelo.  In  spite  of  his 
natural  indolence,  he  strongly  recommended  the  toil 
of  science  to  writers.  "  To  write,  one  should  show 
himself  armed  at  all  points,  like  Minerva  issuing 
from  the  head  of  Jupiter." 

Ilis  translation  of  tlie  Inferno  continues  the  most 
spirited  of  all  the  translations.  Captivated  by  the 
wild  beauties  of  this  poem,  Rivarol  has  raised 
liimself  to  the  height  of  the  poet.  Buffon  said,  "  It 
is  n<  »t  a  translation,  it  is  a  continued  series  of  creations." 
It  must  be  sai<l  that  subsequently  Rivarol  originated 
this  expres>'i<»n  in  regard  to  Buffon  —  dignity  of  style. 
Kivarul,  however,  did  not  flatter  all  the  productions 
of  this  great  man.  He  said  of  his  son  :  "He  is  the 
worst  chapter  in  the  natural  history  of  his  father. 
Between  the  son  and  the  father  the  whole  world  in- 
tervenes." 

During  the  iii-st  years  of  his  sojouni  at  Paris,  he 
lie  lived  no  one  knows  how,  but  always  gay,  lively, 
and  sportive.  He  was  met  evei'VAvhere  where 
talent  had  the  entree^  in  the  saloons,  the  cafes,  the 
theatres,  and  the  caveau.  The  caveau  was  then  a 
fiinoky  den,  like  the  entrance  of  Avernus.  In  this 
lamp-light  of  Parnassus,  according  to  a  verse  of 
Lcmierre,  liixarol  was  soon  the  favorite  talker.  It 
was  tliere  that  the  young  Marquis  de  Champcenetz 
registered  the  first  of  PivaroFs  witticisms.  By 
slow  degrees  he  glided,  under  the  cover  of  certain 
jMM-sons  who  t.ok  a  fancy  to  him,  into  the  saloons 
most  difficult  of  access.  In  that  heydav  of  aristoc- 
racv,   if  his  name    di<l    not    save   liim   entirelv,   his 


202  RTVAROL. 

genius  protected  his  name.  He  pfiid  his  way  bj 
bokl  assurance  while  still  ^young.  He  knew  that  a 
man  who  had  tlie  will  ccmld  always  find  a  sminy 
place  in  this  world.  More  than  one  poet  had  lived 
even  before  his  day,  like  La  Fontaine's  fox,  at  the 
expense  of  those  who  listened  to  him.  To  speculate 
on  flattery  was  a  vulgar  business,  quite  unworthy  of 
Kivarol.  He  preferred  to  speculate  on  satire.  The 
world,  he  used  to  say,  was  a  vast  arena,  where  good 
and  bad,  wolves  and  lambs,  were  mingled  together. 
I  will  be  vicious,  1  shall  be  feared  ;  I  will  make  my 
fortune.  At  each  scratch  of  my  claw,  they  will  ap- 
plaud me  —  at  each  growl  and  bite,  they  will  throw 
me  a  bone."  This  system  succeeded  to  perfection.  His 
first  sarcasms  were  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
Buffon,  who  liked  satire,  and  who  feared  it,  i-eceived 
Rivarol  with  a  thousand  marks  of  favor.  A  great 
number  of  wits  and  distinguished  persons  sliowed 
the  same  disposition  as  M.  de  Buffon.  The  contest 
was  who  should  have  Eivarol  at  his  table  —  who 
should  carry  him  off  to  his  country-house.  Voltaire 
invited  him  to  pass  a  summer  at  Ferney.  E.i\arol 
had  no  Ioniser  anv  reason  to  troidjle  himself  about 
his  larder.  He  lived,  therefore,  very  much  as  he 
fancied,  happy  in  his  indolence  and  carelessness. 
He  rose  at  two  o'clock  in  tlie  afternoon,  dressed 
himself,  went  out  into  society,  and  always  made  a 
resolution  to  go  to  work  the  next  day. 

Panckoucke  offered  him  fifty  crowns  a  month  to 
write  for  the  Mercury.  "  Yery  well,"  said  Eivarol, 
with  the  indifference  of  a  lord;  "with  these  fifty 
crowns  I  will  pay  a  secretary  and  a  valet."  As  he  had 
said,  so  he  did.     This    secretary  and   valet   aided 


HIS    PKETENSIONS   KIDICULED.  203 

wcnderfiilly  his  aristocratic  pretensions,  "  This  Panc- 
koiicke  has  given  me  a  secretar}^,  as  if  it  was  worth 
the  trouble  to  preserve  my  wit;  it  is  only  those  who 
have  a  meager  stock  who  do  so,  like  Champfort  and 
his  like."  Champfort,  who  was  far  from  being  a 
beggar  in  wit,  was  not  of  the  calibre  of  Kivarol. 
Champfort  was  witty  only  at  certain  times,  when  he 
had  sharpened  liis  wit.  and  prepared  it  in  the  morn- 
ing.    Itivarol  was  always  witty. 

He  did  not  hnd  everybody  disposed  to  admire  or 
to  fear  him.  The  greater  part  of  the  men  of  letters, 
Marie-Joseph  Clienier  at  their  head,  made  fierce 
war  on  his  titles  of  nobility,  and  his  literary  titles. 
Marie- Joseph  Chenier  wrote  a  good  sharp  satire 
against  him,  two  lines  of  wliich  recur  to  me  :  — 

Of  Literature  the  hope  forlorn, 
A  Quixote  and  intriguer  born. 

One  reproached  him  with  having  been  born  in  a 
kitchen,  another  with  not  having  put  salt  enough  in 
his  sauces ;  and  a  thousand  other  insults  in  the  same 
style.  They  even  produced  at  the  Yarietes  a  piece 
of  buli'o<.)nery  ridiculing  him  and  Champcenetz, 
This  Champcenetz  was  a  marquis,  one  of  the  favorites 
of  the  school  of  Rivarol,  living  in  the  same  errors  — 
witty  enough  when  his  friend  was  not  by,  serving 
him  as  comrade  in  his  good  and  evil  adventures,  re- 
tailing his  wit,  and  weakening  its  effect.  "  My 
inorji-l'Kjhl ^''  Tlivarol  used  to  say. 

Tu  a  Letter  of  M.  the  President  to  M.  the  Count 

of ,  dated  from  tlu;  chateau  of  Crcuset,  Ilivnrol 

has  dis]»layed  his  talent  in  sharp  and  bitter  criti- 
cism.    He  attacks  the  Abbe  Delille,  for  his  poem  of 


204  EIVAROL. 

The  Gardens.  It  is  the  only  sensil)le  critique  of  tlie 
time.  "While  the  Mercure  de  France,,  the  Almanach 
des  3fuses,  and  other  c^azettcs,  with  some  literary 
pretensions,  were  l)]in(lly  lavishing;  a  thousaTid  enthn- 
siastic  epithets  on  the  lively  ahhe,  ending  by  calling 
him  a  second  Virgil.,  Rivarol,  armed  with  his  wit,  pro- 
nonnced  an  opinion  which  seemed  very  severe  then, 
bnt  is  without  appeal  at  the  present  day.  He  com- 
mences by  defining  these  works,  too  nnich  lauded  in 
social  circles  and  suppers,  which  the  great  day  of 
publication  despoils  of  all  artifice  and  prestige. — 
"•Tliey  are  like  s]X)ilt  children,  passing  trom  the  hands 
of  women  to  those  of  men." — Tie  reaches  tlie  action 
of  the  poem. — "In  the  first  canto,  the  poet  undertakes 
to  control  the  water,  the  flowers,  the  shades ;  in  the 
second,  the  flowers,  the  waters,  the  shades,  and  the 
turf;  in  the  third  and  fburtli,  he  still  controls  the 
shades,  the  flowers,  the  turf,  and  the  waters." — ^The 
critic  afterward  regrets  that  M.  Delille  should  have 
neglected  that  sensibility  of  the  ancients  which  so 
poetically  animates  the  pictures  of  nature,  that  sweet 
and  dreamy  melancholy  of  the  Germans,  which  dif- 
fuses an  infinite  charm,  that  richness  of  the  English 
imagination,  which  colors  all  with  freshness.  Rivarol 
deplores  the  mode  of  life  of  the  bucolic  poet. — "It  is 
in  solitude,  that  we  penetrate  the  depths  of  ^Nature. 
M.  Delille  is  a  merry  little  abbe,  ])rouder,  perhaps, 
of  his  smart  speeches  than  of  his  good  verses;  he 
cultivates  solitude  only  in  some  fashionable  by-street. 
It  was  in  the  fields  that  Virgil  exclaimed,  '  O  uhi 
campi!''  and  M.  the  Abbe  has  never  walked  in  the 
fields.  There  is,  therefore,  nothing  in  the  poem  of  The 
Gardens  which  could  be  the  work  of  a  great  master, 


HIS    LITERARY    JUDGirENT.  205 

not  n  single  pleasant  reminiscence  of  the  Georgics. 
M.  the  Abbe  ought  to  have  carried  away  from  his 
intercourse  with  Yir^il  the  luminous  loii'ic  which  en- 
chains  the  thoughts,  the  beauties,  and  the  episodes  to 
the  subject,  the  secret  thread  by  which  mind  di'aws 
mind  over  its  invisible  course." 

Iiivar<jl  was  a  great  literary  judge,  but  has  not 
committed  to  writinghis  critical  iudscments  anv  more 
than  his  happy  sayings.  He  was  contented  with 
scattering  them  here  and  there  over  the  world,  ac- 
cording t(^  the  caprices  of  his  fancy.  Such  M'ords  of 
his,  liDwever.  bad  more  of  an  echo  than  the  long, 
dull,  and  jiedantic  arguments  of  Marmontel,  or  La 
]Iarpc.  There  is  scarcely  anythin.g  of  Rivarol's,  in 
written  criticism,  but  his  essay  on  Dante,  which  is 
still  the  best  thing  extant  on  this  magniticent  poet, 
I  refer  those  curious  in  literature  to  it.  There  are 
still  to  be  found,  by  diligent  search,  certain  scattered 
notes  on  French  or  ft)reign  ])oets. 

In  17S1,  one  evening  in  April,  the  wits,  the  iihil- 
osophers.  the  great  lords,  and  the  great  ladies,  were 
stnitting  u]t  and  down  the  saloon  of  the  Duchess  de 
Coigny.  On  this  evening,  Tiivarol.  mIio  was  to  read 
his  journal,  that  is  to  say,  talk  right  and  left,  kept 
them  M'aiting  l(»nger  than  usual.  As  soon  as  lie  en- 
tered, a  dee])  silence  ensued.  Everybody  looked  at, 
and  listened  with  interest  to  this  great  man  of  genius, 
who  rivalled  the  philoso])hers  in  reasoning,  the  fine 
ladies  in  grace,  the  wits  in  keenness,  the  great  lords 
in  dignity.  lie  entered  the  saloon  like  a  baron  on 
liis  domains. 

Almost  as  soon  as  he  entered,  Mhile  an  air  of  Phil- 
id'.r  was  being  played  on  the  harpsichord,  IJivarol  re- 

18 


206  RIVAKOL. 

rparked  a  yoniig  woman,  whom  lie  had  already  met,  8 
pale  English  or  German  beauty,  whose  head  bent  in 
i-e\erv,  would  have  made  Ossian  smile  and  weep. 
PJvarol,  suddenly  iouched  to  the  heart,  was,  absorbed 
in   the  contemplation   of  this  flower  of  sentiment; 
seeinfj   her  i)ass  on  the  balcony,  still  more  sad  and 
meditating,  he  could  not  refrain  from  following  hei-. 
lie  who  was  afraid  of  nothing,  he  who  had  never 
trenil>lL'(l,  1h'c-;uuc  i)ale  and  agitated  ;   he  was  on  the 
point  of  turning  back;    however,  lie  relied   on  his 
readiness  of  wit,  and  went  at  all  hazards,  and  leaned 
on  the  balustrade,  within  a  step  of  the  young  lady. 
He  wished  to  speak  ;   he  could  lind  nothing  to  say ; 
he  had  fallen  in  a  few  moments  deeply  in  love  with 
this  strangei-.     T^ow  Love  is  the  least  eloquent  of  all 
the  gods.     As  he  appeared  to  be  studying  the  revo- 
lution of  the  planets,  the  young  lady  slowly  left  the 
balustrade,  and  re-entered  the  saloon,  hununing  in  a 
voice  somewhat  harsh  the  last  notes  of  the  song  of 
Philidor.  —  "AVhy   should    I   trouble   myself  about 
her?"  muttered  liivarol;  "she  did  not  come  here  for 
me;  this  nnisic  reminds  her  of  some  fine  beau;  some 
Arctic  passion,  dipped  in  the  waters  of  the  icy  sea." 
He,  in  his  turn,  re-entered   the  saloon,  where  a 
great  void  was  already  felt. — "  Come,  Monsieur  de 
Rivarol,"  said  Madame  de  Coigny,  "you,  who  make 
up  the  gazette  of  our  times  so  well,  tell  us  what  is 
iroing  on  at  the  theatre  and  the  government,  at  the 
Academy  and  at  Ycrsailles."— "At  the  Academy," 
said  Eivarol,   "  Champfort  has  had  his  say,  and  has 
spoken  like  a  book.     It  is  a  pity;   I  hoped  better  of 
Champfort  at  the  Academy;    he  is  nothing  more 
than  a  sprig  of  lily,  grafted  on  a  poppy-head."— 


HiR  wrr.  207 

"Alas,  tlie  poor  Academy!"  said  the  Abbe  de  Ilas- 
tignac  ;  "  Champfort  was  only  wanting  to  its  glory  ; 
that  Academy  which  has  not  given  a  thought  to 
Rousseau  and  Diderot." — "Rousseau  and  Diderot  I" 
exclaimed  Rivarol  excited  ;  "  they  would  have  dis- 
tin-bed  the  silence  of  the  dead ;  for  even  they,  in 
their  writings,  have  stirring  appeals  and  rhetor- 
ical action,  after  their  fashion ;  they  do  not  appear 
to  be  writinii:;  thev  are  always,  as  it  were,  at  the 
tribune,  the  very  reverse  of  many  who  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  writing  when  they  speak." — "If  there 
was  an  Academy  of  good  talkers,  M.  de  Rivarol 
would  be  its  President,"  said  the  Abbe  de  Baliviere. 
Rivarol  l)owed. — "  Monsieur  the  Abbe  de  Baliviere 
is  like  tliose  people  who  are  always  going  to  sneeze ; 
he  is  always  going  to  be  witty." — The  abbe,  thinking 
it  was  a  compliment,  bowed  in  his  turn. — "Monsieur 
de  Rivarol,  1  expect  an  epigraph  from  you  to  inscribe 
in  my  book  on  morals." — "  You  mean  an  epitaph," 
said  Rivarol,  with  refined  ci'ueltv. — This  time  the 
abbe  aekinjwledged  himself  l)eaten. — "Always  jest- 
ing, always  a  wag,"  he  murmured,  as  he  disai)peared 
in  the  crowd. — "But,"  said  the  fair  stranger,  with  an 
English  accent,  "Monsieur  de  Rivarol  can  not  fail  tu 
become  a  member  t)f  the  Academy,  for  the  wits  as- 
semble there." — "Ah,  madame,"  said  Rivarol,  "I 
know  tliat  it  is  a  decided  advantage  not  to  have  done 
anytliiiig,  Init  one  should  not  abuse  it." — "ITow,  Mon- 
siein-de  Rivarol  I  who,  then,  is  more  accomj)lished  and 
witty  than  yourself?  Your  conversation  is  a  book  al- 
ways open — "  — "At  the  same  page,"  said  Rulliicro. 
who  had  just  arrived. — "Good  evening,  Rulhii-re," 
said  Rivarol,  a  little  nettled  ;  "  it  is  always  your  way  of 


208  KrVATIOL. 

aimoimciiif>;  yourself;   I  iiin  here;   why  should  wc 
put  on  gloves  ?     In  your  criticism,  the  other  day, 
you  cuffed  me  with  the  hand  with  which  you  were 
writing." — M.  de   Grimm  was   then   announced. — 
"Tlic  devil!"  said  the  Al)be  de  Eastignac,  approach- 
ing Eivarol,   "  M.  de  Grimm  apjK'ars  to  have  given 
the  citizen  of  Geneva  a  good  dressing,  in  a  letter  to 
]V[adame  Necher."— "  He  must  have  taken  great  de- 
light in  writing  that  letter,"  said  Rivarol,  "for  little 
minds  triumi)li  ever  the  faults  of  great  geniuses,  as 
owls  enjoy  an  eclipse  of  the  sun."— "Take  care!"  said 
the  Abb^  de  Rastignac,   "M.  de  Grimm  has  great 
readiness  of  wit." — "Pshaw!  there  is  nothing  so  un- 
ready as  readiness  of  wit."—"  What  news  is  there, 
Monsieur  de  Grimm?"    asked  the  Marchioness  of 
St.  Charmont,    "what  do  they  say  at  Versailles?" 
—  "Nothing    nuich,"     said    Grimm,     "there's    the 
king's  joke" on  tlie  Abbe  Maury.      Tlie  illustrious 
abbe  has  preached  at  Versailles,  as  everybody  knows." 
— "On  what  subject,  on  what  text  of  Scri])ture?"— 
"Does  the    abbe    ever    think    about   Scripture?    It 
was  all  profoundly  political ;   he  wanted  to  give  the 
kins:  some  lessons  in  finance,  and  the  administration 
of  government.     'It's  a  pity,'   said  his  majesty,  on 
leaving  the  church,    'if  the  Abbe  Maury  had  only 
talked  to  us  a  little  about  religion,  he  would  have 
siDoken  of  everything.'" — Rivarol  resumed  the  con- 
versation, and  talked  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  in  a 
])hilosophical  and  satirical  vein  on  the  ordinary  topics 
of  the  day.     Madame  de  Coigny  having  made  a  sig- 
)ial  to  him,  he  went  to  her. — "Yon  do  not  know, 
chevalier,  that  that  charming  English  lady  whom 
you  see  down  there  is  very  much  struck  with  your 


TRUTH   AKD   FICTION.  209 

person ;  she  has  come  and  asked  me  your  address; 
I  do  not  know  whj.  Take  care  of  yourself,  the 
English  are  very  queer  sort  of  people."  —  "I  will 
take  care,"  said  Rivarol,  buried  in  his  thoughts.  He 
immediately  resumed  his  former  conversation  in  a 
loud  voice :  "  The  newest  thing  is  a  romantic  little 
story,  not  at  all  known,  which  much  resemljles  the 
amours  of  Ore  billon  the  Gay.  I  will  narrate  it  with 
fictitious  names." 

With  these  words,  Eivarol  cast  an  amorous  glance 
on  the  pretty  English  lady.  He  resumed  as  follows : 
"  It  was  in  one  of  the  three  or  four  beautiful  and 
fashionable  saloons,  where  the  mistress  is  more  a  queen 
than  a  marchioness.  There  were  a  great  number  of 
agreeable  people,  and  among  them  a  certain  adven- 
turer might  be  remarked,  who  was  much  admired,  on 
account  of  his  Avit  according  to  the  women,  for  his 
shape  according  to  some  malicious  men.  On  that 
evening,  our  adventurer,  whom  I  will  call  if  you 
like,  tlie  Chevalier  de  Saint  Sorlin,  was  much  less 
])ri!liant  than  usual.  lie  scarcely  got  out  four  jokes 
in  the  space  of  two  hours.  What  was  the  cause 
of  this  melancholv  chanije  ?  The  chevalier  was 
in  love.  Xear  one  of  tlie  Avindows  he  had  caught 
sight  of  a  beautiful  stranger  of  the  most  attract- 
ive charms,  lie  approached  her  in  the  recess 
of  tlie  window,  hoping  to  have  an  opportunity  to 
Bpeak  to  her  at  his  ease.  But  how  can  a  man  talk 
Avhen  lie  is  in  love,  especially  when  just  surjiriscd  by 
love?  However  he  managed  matters  so  well  that 
lie  attracted  the  attention  of  the  handsome  stranger. 
Slie  condescended  to  lift  her  large  blue  English  eyes 
and  look  at  him.     'J'he  next  day,  toward  noon,  as  ho 

18* 


210  Rn^AROL. 

was  pacing  his  clianibei',  and  meditating  on  all  the 
charms  of  those  beantiful  eyes,  there  was  a  ring  at 
tlie  door.  The  valet  had  gone  out,  so  he  went  and 
opened  it  himself,  What  is  it  that  he  sees  on  the 
staircase  ?  The  beautiful  English  eyes.  Like  the 
tragedy  heroes,  he  can  hardly  believe  his  eyes  and 
ears.  The  lady  was  a  romantic  English  woman. 
She  had  found  our  friend  to  her  taste.  She  w-as  a 
widow,  and  consequently  free,  and  she  came  to  offer 
hiui  her  libei-ty,  her  heart,  lier  hand,  and  her  income. 
'  In  consideration  of  what  ?'  asked  tlie  chevalier. 
'  Marriage,'  replied  the  lady.  '  Permit  me  to  fall  at 
your  feet,  and  kiss  your  hands.'  — '  On  one  condi- 
tion ;  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  can 
only  give  what  she  has.  Now  when  she  has  nothing 
in  her  heart  but  ennui,  ennui  is  all  she  bestows.  If 
I  should  be  in  that  unfortunate  condition,  SM-ear 
to  me  that  we  shall  separate  from  one  another  for 
ever  after  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  of  ennui.'  —  'I 
swear  to  you !'  A  kiss  ratified  the  oath.  In  a  few 
days  they  are  to  be  married.  Meanwhile  pray  tell 
me,  ladies,  what  you  think  of  such  a  marriage  ?  Will 
that  couple  love  one  another  ?" 

Madame  de  Brancas  answered  thus  :  "Yes,  cer- 
tainly, like  a  great  many  others ;  but  they  will  not 
live  six  weeks  together ;  for,  though  they  lived  on 
ambrosia  in  Mahomet's  paradise,  they  would  have 
some  quarters  of  an  hour  of  ennui.  Do  not  believe  that 
two  destinies  will  follow  the  same  road  in  perpetual 
harmony!  "When  the  one  would  dream  in  the  shade, 
the  other  will  want  to  expand  in  the  sunshine.  From 
this  or  something  else  will  come  the  first  quarter  of  an 
hour  of  ennui.  But  after  all  we  did  not  come  into  the 


THE   ENGLISH   LADY.  'ill 

world  ir:eroly  to  amuse  ourselves.  Is  not  that  your 
opinion,  my  fair  cousin  ?  I  think  that  the  counsellor 
must  be  of  the  same  opinion." 

The   next   day,  toward  noon,  a  ring  Avas  heard 
at  Rivarol's  door.     As  he  no  longer  kept  his  valet, 
he  went  and  opened  it  himself,  fancying  that  he  re- 
cognised the  step  of  his  sister.     He  was  not  a  little 
surprised  to  hehold  his  pretty  English  woman  of  the 
previous  evening.    '*  It  was  no  fiction  then,"  said  he, 
Lowing.     After  a  \erj  graceful  courtesy,  the  lady 
passed    without   ceremony   into    the    antechamber. 
"  Xo,  monsiem-,"  said  she,  "  no,  it  is  not  a  tiction.    I 
am  wearied  ;  I  do  not  know  wiiat  to  do  with  myself. 
You  have  taught  me  a  very  original  mode  of  occup}'- 
ing  my  mind."  —  "  Madame,  I  did  not  anticii)ate  so 
mucli  lui])piness:  it  was  Heaven  whicli  inspii'ed  me. 
iJo  me  the  lionor  to  walk  into  the  parlor."     Tlivarol 
gently  took  the  hand   of  the  lady  to  conduct  her. 
Tlie  lady  allowed  herself  to  be  conducted,  with  a 
smile.     "  You  do  not  know  who  I  am.     I  will  tell 
you  in  a  word.    I  was  left  a  widow  after  having  been 
married  two  years  to  a  poor  Welsh  baronet,  avIio 
made  somewhat  of  a  hole  in  my  f  )rtune."  —  "  And, 
in  your  heart,"  said  Ivivarol. — "  Such  damage  is  not 
irreparable."  —  "  It  is  very  cold  in  this  parlor,"  re- 
plied Ilivarol ;  "suppose  we  step  into  the  bedroom." 
The  hidy  i-aised  her  head  proudly  so  as  to  dispense  with 
a  Te\)]y      "Your  wishes  shall  be  iulfilled   in  every 
respect,  my  lady.    I  engage  myself  from  the  j)re8- 
ent  moment  to  be  ever  at  your  service." —  "  My  for- 
tr.ne  is  slender."  —  "  Mine  is  nothing  at  all.     I   live 
from  liand  t<»  mouth,  although  like  a  lord,     it  is  true 
that  I  alwavs  dine  out ;  but  that  is  a  consideration 


212  KIVAROL. 

which  amounts  to  nothing  in  a  marriage  contract."— 
'•  You  have  what  is  better  than  fortune,  "vy^it  iind 
genius,  which  at  the  present  day  are  almost  ec^ual  to 
a  throne."  —  ''Yes,  a  tlirone  whose  every  step  is  a 
breakneck  one;  l)ut  with  you,  my  hidy,  a  man  would 
rise  far  beyond  a  throne." 

Three  weeks  afterward,  Eivarol  blindly  married 
this  romantic  lady.     Slie  was  a  sort  of  a  blue-stock- 
ing wlu)  came  from   London,  where  her  face  had 
gained  her  some  success.     She  was  nut  an  English 
woman  at  all,  but  was  born  in  the  Vosges,  at  Rennr- 
emont.     Rivarol,  however,  always    called    her   my 
lady^  so  as  not  to  let  the  world  think  that  he  had  been 
deceived  ;  for  scarcely  had  he  been  married  before 
)ie  discovered  that  mij  lady  was  no  other  than  a  well- 
known  adventuress  who  had  taken  him  at  liis  word, 
not  well  knowino;  what  to  do  with  herself    This  coun- 
terfeit  noble  woman  had  succeeded,  by  dint  of  in- 
triinie,  in  irainino;  admission  to  the  soirees  of  Madame 
de    Coigny.     Hivarol    himself  never    succeeded    m 
learning  her   origin   and   adventures,  but  he   soon 
knew  too  well  that  the  little  fortune  of  which  she 
had  spoken,  with  such  a  prudent  air,  was  reduced 
to  zero.     You  can  easily  imagine,  that  between  Riv- 
erol  and  my  lady,  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  of  en- 
nui soon  made  its  appearance.    There  was  not  even 
a  honey-moon;  the  red  moon  soon  displayed  its  ih- 
omened  crescent  over  this  ill-sorted  marriage.     In  a 
letter  dated  in  the  first  days  of  his  marriage,  Rivarol 
wrote  to  M.  de  Lauraguais :  "  I  have  seen  fit  to  slan- 
der Love,  and  he  has  sent  me  Hymen  to  avenge  him." 
With  my  lady,  evil  days  had  come  to  Rivarol. 
He  had  never  had  money  except  accidentally,  thanks 


MARRIED   LIFE.  213 

to  plaj,  love,  or  friendship.  He  had  always  lived 
at  the  expense  of  his  neighbor.  lie  Imd  lived  mag- 
nificentlv  at  the  house  of  Madame  de  Polio-nac,  at 
M.  de  Bntfon's,  at  M.  de  Brancas',  at  the  finest 
mansions  in  Paris,  and  the  finest  conntiy-seats  in  the 
provinces.  They  disputed  with  each  other  the  privi- 
lege of  entertaining  this  singular  man,  who  paid  his 
reckoning  with  the  small  change  of  his  wit.  All  his 
powerful  friends  thought  themselves  well  paid.  He 
was  not  one  of  those  vulgar  parasites  who  administer 
long  draughts  of  flatterv  to  their  hosts.  Rivarul  al- 
ways  had  great  freedom  of  manner.  He  flattered 
no  one.  Before  a  lord  he  assumed  the  airs  of  a  lord. 
He  never  shrank  from  the  truth,  however  bitter  it 
might  be.  Kow,  how  was  he  to  live,  as  he  was  no 
longer  single  ?  The  noise  caused  by  his  marriage 
troijl)led  him  a  great  deal.  He  was  pitied  and  less 
sought  after.  He  attempted  to  make  himself  a  home, 
where  he  would  find  consolation  in  labor;  but  he 
was  lazy,  and  his  wife  violent. 

After  some  matrimonial  storms,  Rivarol  gradually 
retrinu'd  to  his  old  mode  of  life,  and  began  to  run 
about  the  world  without  troubling  himself  about  liis 
wife.  My  lady,  whose  anger  was  constantly  in- 
creasing, fell  sick.  Her  life  was  even  in  danger. 
Kivarol  remained  insensible,  telling  everybody  that 
a  woman  so  well  i)ickled  was  ^n-e  to  last  until 
eighty.  "Wearied  with  continually  hearing  bitter 
complaints,  he  abandoned  his  home  to  follow  ^fa- 
nette,  another  adventuress  of  easy  access,  whom  he 
uncer<;inoniously  made  his  mistress.  He  was,  liow- 
ever,  cruelly  ])unished  for  his  ba-^e  aband(»mnent  of 
one  whom  he  I'ud   taken  under  hi^;  iirotofti'^n      Oru-, 


214:  KIVAROL. 

fine  morniiic;  lie  read  in  tlie  Journal  that  the  French 
Academy  had  just  decreed  the  prize  of  virtue  to  the 
servant-maid  of  M.  de  Itivai'ol,  f<>i'  haviui^  nursed 
and  taken  care  of  Madame  Tlivaro],  who  had  been 
abandoned  by  her  husband.  That  -was  enough  to 
crush  for  ever  a  man  of  feeling.  liivai'ol  was  only 
a  man  of  wit  —  he  carelessly  laughed  it  off. 

He  was  soon  pardoned  in  a  Avorld  whei'C  virtue 
was  no  lono-or  a  title  of  noT)ilitv.  He  found  another 
home  with  Manette,  whose  laughing  prattle  some- 
times charmed  him.  This  second  retreat  was  not 
free  from  storms.  Manette  had  travelled  a  great 
deal.  She  had  left  the  marks  of  her  light  footstep 
in  Italv  and  England.  A  woman  who  travels  lets 
her  heart  travel  too.  Rivarol  was  jealous  and  fickle. 
It  often  happened,  according  to  Garat,  that  he  took 
his  gentle  mistress  by  the  hair  of  her  head,  Avith  a 
most  gentle  intention  of  ])itching  her  out  of  the 
window;  but  he  I'ccollected  himself  in  time.  Ma- 
nette was  an  amiable  copy  of  Manon  Lescaut,  who 
had  come  from  her  province,  ignorant  and  poor,  but 
very  pretty.  She  had  understanding,  but  especially 
the  understanding  of  love  ;  besides  she  had  studied 
at  the  school  of  So])hie  Arnould.  May  I  not  insert 
this  charming  epistle  to  Manette?  — 

O  thou,  Munette,  O  thou  !  to  whom  all   books  are  sealed, 
Who  never  yet  hast  read   two  words  in  one  of  mine  ; 
To  whom  e'en  prose  and  verse  have  never  heen  revealed. 
Who  knr)west  not  if  ink  and   paper  do  combine 

The  causes  both  of  good  and  ill  — 
If  other  poppies  blow,  and  other  laurels  twine, 

Than  those  with  care  the  gardeners  till ; 
Who  knowest  not  a  quill  when   parted  from  its  goose; 
Who  often  tendered  me,  some  knotty  point  to  loose, 


A    GRAMMARIAN.  216 

Youi  scissors :  or  some  scraps  of  thread,  with  dcxt'roiis  skill 
^ly  odds  and  ends  of  chat  to  patch  and  stitch  together  ; 
Ah,  keep  for  me,  I  pray,   this  ignorance  for  ever. 

Those  nothings  that  your  head  doth  fill. 

If  aught  should  make  you  grow  more  wise, 

To  you  small  gain  from  it  would  rise, 

While  all  my  happiness  you'd  kill. 
Have  ever  taste  for  me,  such  as  in  fruit  we  prize. 

And  spirit  we  from  rose  distil. 

lu  his  pjreat  Discourse  on  the  Universality  of  the 
French  Lanfjuagc^  Ilivarol,  then  actually  Count  de 
liivarol,  showed  himself  a  truly  profound  granmia- 
rian.  De>]tite  all  the  jealousy  of  the  journalistos  who 
wrote,against  the  journalist  who  talked,  there  was  but 
<tiie  cry  of  admiration  throughout  the  gazettes,  there 
were,howevor.  for  all  that,  as  usual,  bitter  criticisms, 
like  that  of  Garat.  This  discourse  is  a  noble  monu- 
ment for  our  tongue.  It  is  the  work  of  a  sagacious, 
reasonabh'.  and  original  mind,  rejecting  with  disdain 
tlie  old  frippery  of  the  common  places  of  rhetoric 
and  i)hilosopliy.  He  runs  over  the  history  of  lan- 
guages witliout  stojiping  too  long  at  the  writers  of 
jMiuderous  toines.  like  Vosius,  Bochart,  Brigant,  Geb- 
elin,  who  wrote  to  be  ivtid  by  no  mortal  man.  The 
learned  and  the  «nperficial  may  follow  Hivarol  with 
tlie  same  ease.  He  tjuides  us  throuah  the  labyrinth 
with  a  Itetter  clew  than  Ariadne's,  that  of  his  bold 
and  Imiiinous  intellect. 

lie  ended  by  takinn:  a  irreat  liking  to  the  lihil- 
osophical  study  of  languages.  It  is  known  that  Lei!>- 
nit/.  wished  tliat  the  peo]»lc  of  the  world  were  di- 
vided accoi'ding  to  their  languages.  lie  was  even 
<lcsirouis  of  makinir  a  ireoo;ra])hical  chart  on  this  T)lan, 
Iliviiro],  thinking  the  idea  an  ingenious  one,  said  ihal 


216  RIVAKOL. 

he  woultl  uiidcrtiikc  Leibnitz's  chart,  provided  thai 
he  was  imprisoned  in  Mahomet's  paradise,  ■\viih- 
ont  women,  and  guarantied  the  h'fe  of  a  patri- 
arcli.  Even  in  a  paradise  of  Mahomet,  Rivarol 
could  not  have  resigned  himself  to  the  laborious 
scrapings  of  the  pen  :  he  would  rather  have  talked 
to  himself.  Such  indolence  is  to  be  de])lored  when 
we  reflect  that  this  intellect,  eager  to  talk  on  evciy 
subject,  and  to  talk  v/ell,  had  a  far-reaching  horizon 
in  the  regioas  of  philosophy.  A  little  good  resolu- 
tion, pen  in  hand,  he  might,  perhaps,  Avho  knows, 
have  arrived  at  the  knowledge  of  the  primitive  lan- 
guage, and  the  derivation  of  all  the  second aiy 
dialects,  which  are  spoken  throughout  the  globe. 
How  much  would  he  not  have  left  besides  in  all 
departments  ?  For  it  was  only  by  caprice  that  he 
wished  to  shine  as  a  linguist.  He  was  especially 
poet  and  philosoijher  :  he  talked  politics  like  a  great 
statesman.  To  express  in  a  word  how  much  his  intel- 
lect was  prized,  I  will  recall  the  remark  of  the  Duke 
de  Brancas,  who  when  solicited  to  subscribe  to  a  new 
edition  oi iha  Encyclopedia^  replied,  "The  Encyclo- 
jyedia  !  of  what  use  is  it  since  Rivarol  visits  me  V 

This  Discourse  on  the  Universality  of  the  French 
JLangiiage^  obcained  the  prize  of  the  Berlin  Academy. 
Frederic  ordered  his  academy  to  receive  Kivarol. 
He  wrote  to  him  himself  a  very  laudatory  letter. 
Kivarol  replied  in  verse,  he  could  not  do  less.  It  ia 
in  this  epistle  that  these  pretty  lines  are  found  :  — 

For  me  —  of  Nature  the  abandoneJ  child, 
Nursed  by  the  hands  of  indolence  and  ease, 
Unnerved  by  pleasure  —  it  must  be  my  doom 
To  find  at  once  oblivion  in  the  tomb. 


niS    FAMILY    IN    PAKIS.  *317 

Notwithstanding  his  pcrious  vrritings  on  language, 
morals,  and  politics,  llivuvol  did  not  abandon  the 
6eei)tre  of  wit.  He  alwayc  scattered  wit).  qz,^v.  hr.iius 
his  sparkling  showers.  Ke  incessanllj  pursiied  his 
friends  and  his  enemies  wi'h  his  piquant  satires. 
One  day,  at  the  Palais  Koval,  he  saw  Fkrian  pass 
before  hiiu,  wirh  a  nf.aniu^.cript  sticking  half  out  of 
his  coat-pocket.  "  Ah,  Monsieur  de  Florian,"  he 
cried  to  him,  wiih  his  mocking  smile  ;  "  if  you  wi.?-o 
not  known,  how  you  would  be  robbed  !"  About  the 
same  time  he  dined  at  Mudame  de  Polignac's,  vhere, 
while  they  were  c-xnectiii;!  ^c-mj  witty  remark,  lie 
blurted  out  some  groi?3  Gcipldi'LV  in  order  to  see 
how  the  guests  woidd  look.  Tlicre  was  fi  goneral 
exclamation:  "Thai;  is  jutl  the  way.  I  can  cot 
say  M.iytiiing  ctupid  without  seme  one 's  ci jin^  out, 
'Str»p  thief'"' 

For  i?ome  years  still,  P.ivarol  continued  to  be  Iho 
most  redour'rtlile  pamplileteor,  whether  he  wi-Aq  or 
spoke.  Ilis  father  having  died,  he  si-ir.moned  to 
him  a  brother  and  two  of  his  sisters,  gaye  them  titles 
according  to  his  custom,  spent  his  last  ciown  on  their 
toilettes,  and  ijrought  them  out  iu  the  fashionable 
world,  where  they  hv.no,  wi-hout  haying  to  wait  too 
long,  suitors  in  marilcre.  This  was  what  Rivarul 
expected.  The  b.'c.hjr  also  m.itde  his  way  well. 
lie  became  major-goneral.  Hi-arol  said  of  him  : 
"  He  would  have  been  the  v/it  ci  ar.y  other  family, 
lie  was  tlie  fool  of  ours." 

As  tile  lievolution  apprc?ch"d,  Lc  might  have  hvA 
a  fine  career  by  nuikiug  liimself  the  ])aiii|ild<'tcjr  of 
the  peojil*'.  Tills  lie 'tus.lidn^d  doing.  Jle  despised, 
Bfiy.H  a  biographer,  the  p  liticsci  tho  strccU  and  of  the 


■  a 


21S  KI\    vKOL. 

tavu"";.  He  took  vp  t.ie  detcnce  of  all  that  Llind  no. 
bility,  who  i-p.d  been  his  companions  in  pleasure.  It 
must  be  adi'iitied  that  M.  de  ^[aurepas  liad  already 
paid  hin;  royally  at  so  nuich  for  every  word  and 
every  line.  It  nnist  be  admitted  that  Queen  Marie- 
Antoinette,  vrho  soug-ht  arms  and  orators  to  Gup])ort 
the  tottering  throne,  had  summoned  Rivarol  to  Ver- 
sailles. Accordingly,  on  his  return  from  the  palace, 
Rivarol,  without  losing  time,  wrote  against  Mirabean, 
and  thundered  violently  against  "  this  chimerical 
equality,  which  over-excited  brains  wanted  to  establish 
in  the  finest  country  of  Europe.  While  lulling  the 
people  to  sleep  with  tales  of  the  golden  age,  you  rivet 
their  chains  more  firmly  for  the  future.  You  give 
them  the  raire  of  the  lio.i,  without  arming  them  wiin 
his  strength.  Absolute  equality  between  men  will 
always  be  a  myf-f;ery  •>!  ilie  philosophers.  The 
clj7-rch  constantly  builds  up,  but  the  maxims  of  the 
innovatoi'S  tend  only  to  destmction  —  they  will 
niin  the  rich  without  enriching  the  poor.  Instead  of 
the  equality  of  property,  we  shall  soon  have  only 
the  equality  of  misery."  In  order  to  describe  Mira- 
beau  in  a  word,  he  said  :  "This  Mirabeau  is  capable 
of  anything  for  money,  even  of  a  good  action." 

The  Duke  of  Orleans  despatched  the  Duke  dc 
Biron,  to  gain  him  to  his  Ciiuse,  He  refused.  The 
king  himself  had  recourse  to  Rivarol.  One  moniing, 
M.  de  Malesherbes  was  announced.  Rivarol  rose 
resDectfully.  ''  I  come,"  said  the  ex-m  lister,  "  in 
behalf  of  the  king,  to  propose  to  you  an  interview 
with  his  majesty,  for  nine  o'clock  this  evening.  The 
kinc:,  filled  with  esteem  fur  vour  talents,  has  thouirht 
that  considering]:  the  difficidt  circumstances  in  whicli 

O 


Loms  xvr.  219 

the  state  is  plat.-ed,  he  might  Ciaim  them."  —  ''Mon- 
sieur," answered  •Rivuroi,  "  the  ]>"in£r has  had  perhaps 
ah'eady  but  too  maiiy  counsels.  I  have  but  one  to  give 
I'-ini :  If  he  wishes  to  rei^n,  it  Is  time  that  he  should 
act  the  king  ;  oihervoise  A;  icilt  ne  no  longer  kingP 
As  we-  L-ee,  Tlivarol  preserved  his  freedom  of 
speech.  He  did  not  consider  himself  obliged  to  any- 
body,  ev-i:n  to  tho  hing.  He  wiis  punctual  to  the  ap- 
pointment. "Sire,"  said  he  to  this  king,  who  only 
knew  hov*-  to  listen ;  "  pardon  me  if  I  venture  to  speak 
the  truth."  And  after  this  ])reamble,  Hivarol  looked 
aro\md  liim,  as  if  truth  had  been  ill  at  ease  before 
the  throne  of  Louis  XYI.  "The  state  is  beggared, 
sire,  tliere  is  its  weak  side.  M.  jSTecker  is  a  charla- 
tan :  his  report  is  a  trap  to  gain  conlidence,  without 
anything  i-csulting  for  the  good  of  the  state.  The 
ri^tables  are  called  together,  plenty  of  ciphers  for  a 
case  of  simple  subtraction,  llely  on  it,  sire,  when 
one  wislies  to  prevent  tlie  horrors  of  a  revolution, 
one  must  desii'e  and  carry  out  a  revolution  himself. 
The  ])arliaments  and  the  philosophers  have  com- 
menced the  mischief,  especially  the  ])iMliamcnts ; 
tiiev  formed  l»v  an  esprit  de  corps  a  barrier  of  selfish- 
ne.-s,  which  ahnost  always  opposed  the  royal  power. 
If  I  h;id  lieen  king  of  France,  I  should  not  have 
exik'd  tliese  memboi-s  of  parliament,  but  should  have 
had  them  takm  to  Cliarcuton,  where  they  wouhl  have 
been  treate<l  like  limatics.  It  is  better,  wlien  (jiie 
i.'  condemned  to  command  a  great  i)eo])!e  to  ctunmit 
sin  njtparent  injustice,  than  to  see  the  sceptre  of  power 
])roken  in  one's  liands.  Weakness  is  worse  f^r  a 
kitii;  than  the  tvrai\nv  which  maintains  order.  For 
yon,  sire,  there  remains  for  you  yet  to — act  the  ling.'' 


220  KIVAKOL. 

The  kino;  did  not  understand  a  word  of  this  dis- 
cdirse.  lie  disniis«ed  Rivarol,  and  declared  tliat 
he  would  consider  it.  Rivaroi  pushed  farther  and 
farther  into  tlie  arena,  became  more  and  more  ardent 
in  tlie  strno-c'le ;  he  let  loose  all  his  wrath  and  all  his 
wit  on  the  Orleans  faction.  He  was  soon  informed 
that  there  v/as  a  great  deal  of  talk  at  the  club  des 
cordeliers  of  strino-imi;  him  a  la  lavterne.  He  did 
not  care  to  brave  the  danger,  but  departed  quietly 
for  the  chateau  de  Manicamp,  where  hi;^  old  friend 
the  Count  de  Laurao-uais  had  already  taken  refuw. 
li  was  a  noisy  solitude,  full  of  lackeys  and  equi- 
pages. Hence  Rivarol  continued  his  pamphlets, 
l:ie  Acts  of  the  Apostles^  with  Champcenetz,  his 
Theory  of  Political  Bodies^  his  National  Journal^ 
Solomon  of  Cambray.  It  is  also  at  this  time  that 
his  history  of  General  La  Fayette  dates,  whom  he 
calls  General  Morpheus.  The  celebrated  Burke, 
somewhat  later,  reading  these  political  writings  of 
llivarol,  exclaimed,  with  enthusiasm,  that  they 
■would  one  day  be  placed  along  side  of  the  annals 
of  Tacitus.* 

•  The  Earon  de  Tbcis,  who  had  often  seen  Rivarol  in  1791,  at 
Maiiicarrip.  has  been  iiind  enou'jh  to  note  down  liis  remiiiiscpiices  for 
me.  I  sliall  reproduce  but  tliis  one  from  ell  these  precious  notes, 
which  well  display  Kivarol's  manner  about  that  time.  "  His  Hcldres? 
inspired  confidence.  He  disseminated  about  him  an  atmosphere  of 
happiness  and  pliilosophy.  He  had  an  open  countenance,  a  sonorous 
voice.  His  con  7crsat;i-.n  was  brilliant,  and  inpid  as  li^litnin?.  If  the 
conversation  became  serious,  this  came  man,  co  remarkable  for  his 
lovely  sallies,  suddenly  became  an  c'oquent  orator,  but  always  sen- 
sible :  then  relurnimir  to  his  habitual  di.^pisition,  and  as  if  he  re- 
pented of  havini^  talked  sense  loo  long  a  time,  he  ended  with  some 
brilliant  witticism.  "  M.  (]e  Theis  haa  otill  fresh  in  his  memory  the 
personal  apfjearance  of  Hivcrol.  "  Hs  was  tali  and  comely,  had 
e  noble  manner,  Gne  features,  an  eagle  glance,  a  delicate  and  smilingr 


ris  ExnV:  221 

Meanwliile  Kivarol,  fearing  to  be  discovered  b}'  tlic 
Bans-culottes  of  the  revolutionary  inquisition,  resolved 
to  expatriate  himself,  like  so  manv  others.  He  sum- 
moned Manette  to  him,  and  departed  for  Flanders  in 
her  joyous  company.  At  Brussels  he  wrote  again  in 
defence  of  the  king,  wlio  had  just  been  imprisoned. 
From  Brussels  he  went  to  London,  where  he  left 
Manette ;  from  London  to  Hamburgh,  where  he  re- 
mained some  years.  He  was  much  sought  after  by 
foreigners,  b}""  emigrants,  and  by  the  small  number  of 
the  learned  who  chanced  to  meet  there.  While  there 
he  wrote  for  the  Spectateur  du  Iford^  but  as  usual, 
pai"simoniously.  The  lines  which  follow  will  give  you 
a  just  idea  of  the  voluptuousy«r  niente  that  had  seized 
Rivarol :  "  Indolent  to  excess,  Rivarol  had  already 
passed  the  period  when  his  dictionary  was  to  have 
been  finished,  without  having  a  single  article  in  it 
ready.  Fauch,  a  printer, at H':.mburgh,took  him  to  liis 
house,  lodged  him  there,  shut  him  in,  put  sentinels  at 
his  door,  and  forbade  enii-ance  to  the  listeners  with 
whom  Rivarol  liked  to  oVLrroimd  himself;  in  a  word, 
he  forced  him  to  write.  IMvarol,  a  prisoner,  supplied 
matter  slowly,  but  furnished,  at  last,  to  Fauch's  work- 
men three  or  four  pages  a-day,  by  drawing  upon  a 
large  stock  of  thoughts  scattered  in  his  portfolio,  or 

mouth;  and  to  cr').vn  all  r\  fine  brown  head  of  hair.  He  had  the  Iiest 
liair  of  any  man  of  h!.-*  '.i.rjc.  He  showed  orinina!  elci^ance  in  his  dress, 
ahh(M):;h  it  was  ah'sy?  simple."  M.  do  Theis  sau-  u  very  bea\itifui 
wmiian  at  Mar.ic.m;:,  wh-.'  iiad  come  privately  Iosco  Ri\arol.  He  was 
not  alii  ^  to  discover  wnelhcr  or  no  it  was  Madame  Rivarol.  The 
joiirnahst  lovi-d  mys'ery  in  every  thine,  he  opened  to  no  one  tiie  vast 
voliiiiie  of  his  I  rivutc  life.  He  had  a  reason  for  tiiis,  for  it  was  one 
■i(  llic  K<Miid:iliius  volniiicH  of  his  epoch  fertile  in  scandal.  M.  de 
Theis  al>'o  saw  the  son  (T  Kivarol,  whu  was  called  Kaj)liael,  and  was 
as  beautiful  n"  K.ipiiael  must  fiave  l/een  at  ten  vears  of  age. 


223  KivAKor,. 

ratlier,  in  little  ticketed  l)ai;-!^,  wliore  It  was  his  ens 
toni  to  throw  thoni.     Thus  was  Rivarol  delivei'ed,  at 
the   end   of  thi'ce    niontlis,   of  his   preliminary  dis- 
course.'' 

I  will  also  copy  the  conclusion  of  a  letter  of  lliv- 
arol's,  tonching  his  indolence  at  Hamburgh :  "It  is  in 
vain  for  in}'  laziness  to  plead  its  ancient  privileges.  I 
treat  it  like  an  old  accpiaintance.  I  work  as  much  as  I 
can,  but  never  as  much  as  I  would  wish  to.  A  taran- 
tula, named  Fauch,  as  sharp  after  a  page  of  text  as  a 
dog  after  the  cpiarry,  is  continually  on  mj  scent.  My 
Iriend,  one  must  make  his  track  of  sadness  in  this 
lower  woi-ld,  in  order  to  have  some  claim  in  the  other. 
I  have,  I  think,  marked  my  own  sufficiently  deep."* 

From  Hanibnrgh,  Rivarol  went  to  Berlin,  where 
he  resolved  to  live  until  the  end  of  what  he  called 
the  saturnalia  of  French  libertv.  He  was  received 
by  the  king  of  Prussia  better  than  a  Condc  or  a 
Moritmorcncy  would  have  been.  lie  fonnd  at  Ber- 
lin, as  at  Paris,  a  brilliant  auditory  to  hear  him  talk 
politics  or  the  belles-lettres.  He  even  fonnd  friends, 
whicli  had  not  bc<n  his  fortune  at  Paris.  Among 
othei-:-,  he  cited  the  embassador  of  Sweden  and  M. 
G'.jaiiie.'a.  He  made  liis  peace  willi  Delille,  and  some 
other  exiles,  whom  he  had  formerly  bitten  to  the  qnick 

•  One  of  Riviirol's  sisters,  given  by  hirr  in  tnnri'iai^e  to  the  Banin 
il'Angol,  \v;is  the  mistress  of  Lum  ;-.ir!.'?.;  s"-.-  h;i(l  followrd  this 
cencral  in  his  exile,  to  (iait:ii<e  wilh  faitlifiii  love,  his  evil  (nrtiines. 
She  often  wrote  to  lier  brother:  "Draw  Duinoiirit^z  from  his  tomti ; 
hy  whnt  he  has  <lone,  we  may  jti<!ge  what  lie  will  d  i,"  she  repcateil 
inres;i:inlly.  Kivnrol,  ioi|M)iluri((l,  wrote  to  his  si.strr;  "Opinion  liillcil 
l)ijnioiiri(Z  when  ho  quilted  Frnr.ce.  'F'ell  him,  ther'^fore,  a-!  a  friend, 
lo  net  the  part  of  a  dead  man  ;  it  is  the  only  one  wl-ich  it  suits  him  to 
play ;  the  more  he  writes  that  he  live.s,  the  more  i>h>.linately  will 
they   >?lieve  him  U  lie  dead." 


niS   DEATH.  '2'Zi^ 

in  his  Sv^1:ii'cs ;  "hut  liis  most  delightful  friendship  at  Ber- 
lin wa;5  that  with  the  Princess  Olgorouska,  wlio  loved 
the  sciences,  scholars,  and  poets.  The  princess 
was  still  youno-  nrettv  enough.  She  lavished  her 
fortune  royallj  like  a  Russian  princess.  It  will  be 
readily  undeibtood  that  Kivarol  found  this  mode  of 
livinir  in  excellent  taste.  "  One  can  at  least  console 
one's  self,"  he  wrote  to  Paris,  "  for  being  far  from 
one's  country,  and  above  all  from  one's  wife."  It 
was  quite  ten  years  since  he  had  heard  the  latter 
spoken  of.  It  must  be  admitted  he  was  never  the 
first  to  broach  the  subject.  His  son  was  in  the  ser- 
vice of  Denmark. 

He  was  attacked  mortally  on  the  5th  of  April, 
1801,  some  saj  by  a  violent  fever,  others  by  an  in- 
flammation of  the  chest.  He  was  only  sick  seven 
days.  All  that  was  illustrioui}  in  Boi'lin,  at  court  and  in 
city,  showed  their  friendship  and  devotion.  He  was 
sensible  to  the  last  moment,  and  died  like  an  ancient 
philosopher,  surrounded  by  friends  and  flowers.  His 
death  has  been  difierently  related.  According  to  Sul- 
pice  de  la  Platiere,  he  died  fully  impressed  with  the 
truth  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  never  los'jig  his 
serenity,  accustoming  himriolf  to  the  idea  of  death  sur- 
rounded  by  the  flo\\cr,'5  of  spring,  having  a  parterre 
of  roses  in  sight,  and  at  last  expiring  witii  theLO 
solemn  words :  "My  IrieU'l^,  beheld  the  great  shadow 
aiijjroaches,  tliese  r"/6ca  are  about  to  change  to  poj*- 
pics  :  it  is  time  to  conteiiqjhate  eternity." 

According  to  the  O'lli-n"  of  his  works,  he  died  like 
a  sage  of  (ire-  ce.  Tlie  eve  of  his  death,  forc-flceing 
liis  ap|»roachIng  end,  he  had  himself  taken  to  the 
(•<-M:itry-.seat  of  the  Piiiicess  Olg<.in»uKka.     He  was 


224  klVAROL. 

desirous  that  liis  chamber  should  be  strewn  Avith 
flowers,  his  bed  drawn  to  the  window  whence 
he  could  see  a  garden  and  a  brook.  "  Here  I  am," 
he  said,  "between  the  four  elements,"  alluding  to  the 
brook,  the  garden  of  roses,  the  air  which  caressed 
his  burning  forehead,  the  love  of  tlie  princess.  Di-iJng 
the  evening  he  had  moments  of  delirium,  demand- 
ing Attic  figs  and  nectar.  The  princess  wished  to 
take  hi?  hand,  he  was  dead. 

Finally,  according  to  Madame  de  Tlivarol,  who 
saw  fit  to  write  about  him  after  t\^•enty  years  of  ab- 
sence, he  died  in  a  very  ])rosaic  manner,  uttering 
furious  cries,  which  were  heard  diirinrj  three  days 
from  one  end  of  the  city  of  Berlin  to  the  other.  I 
would  push  gallantry  very  far  in  order  to  give  cred- 
ence to  an  account  by  a  woman,  if  it  was  not  Madame 
de  Ilivarol  writing  about  her  husband. 

What  is  beyond  doubt,is  that  Ilivarol  died  yor.ng, 
leaving  behind  him  only  the  fragments  scattered 
here  and  there  of  a  splendid  work.  His  ideas  hava 
left  traces  of  their  passage,  his  style  is  of  the  grjiid 
school,  by  turns  pompous  and  energetic,  always  ori- 
ginal, not  avoiding  enough  the  play  of  words  and 
jingle  of  sentences.  But  what  will  live  above  all  of 
this  man,  who  only  showed  what  he  could  have  dono, 
is  his  pure  and  simple  wit,  the  tra'i'iion  of  his  eliarp 
and  genial  eloquence.  In  a  word,  Ilivarol  w:ll  live 
in  political  and  literary  }  istory  because  Iw  v:as  th"^ 
finest  talker  of  the  eighteenth  centuij. 


THE    CHEVALIER    DE    LA    CLOS. 


Fancy  to  yourself,  in  1760,  at  the  time  when 
Sophia  Amonld  made  her  debut  at  the  opera,  nnder 
the  reign  of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  a  young  man, 
grown  jD-ale  from  dreams  of  heroic  glory,  studying  the 
actions  of  the  most  illustrious  captains,  already  re 
nowned  for  his  bravery,  because  he  had  fought  in  a 
duel,  in  despair  of  displaying  himself  on  another 
field  of  battle;  by  turns  proud  and  happy  to  feel  in 
his  grasp  the  hilt  of  a  sword,  to  discover  in  books  the 
science  of  v/ar. 

Xow  behold  another  portriiit:  —  A  chevalier  of 
1766,  representative  of  the  roues  of  the  Regency. 
We  are  at  the  opera,  at  the  debut  of  Mademoiselle 
Beaumesnil.  A  pastoral  is  represented.  Our  chev- 
alier is  in  :i  1)().\,  ill  fiur  and  good  company.  They 
call  him  zevalier :  he  :ipy)lands  the  actress,  and  ex- 
claimo  adoahle!  He  dioappcars  from  the  box,  to  go 
and  (ifi'er  his  congrutiil.-.uons  to  the  debutante.  On 
approaching,  he  repc-its  to  her  some  impertinent 
verses.  Mademoiscllo  Beaumesnil,  in  her  delight, 
promises  to  receive  him  at  h<2r  tuivate  levee.  He  re 
turna  to  the  box.  where  hii- long  absence   is    already 


226  TiiK  cii::vali1':k  pk  la  clos. 

a  cause  of  complaint.  In  tliat  box  thei-j  is  a  lad  j  of 
forty,  and  a  yonng  girl  just  entering  on  life. 

Do  yon  see,  in  a  room  in  furnished  lodgings,  at 
Grenoble,  about  1779,  a  man  who  is  already  gray, 
althuugh  still  yor.ng?  He  is  seated  at  a  littie  table, 
where  he  is  writing  rapidly,  sometimes  interrogating 
his  memory,  sometimes  turning  ovei-  Clarissa  IJai'- 
lowe^  the  Hellgieuse.,  and  the  Noxiv-ille  Ildoise. 
It  is  nndnight;  a  small  lamp  throws  its  faint  light 
upon  him.  A  malicious  smile  passes  now  and  then 
over  his  lips.  Lavater  would  have  said  that  this 
man,  who  is  wj'iting  a  satire  in  the  style  of  Petronius, 
is  taking  vengeance.  It  is  a  satire  on  the  world  in 
which  he  has  lived,  on  the  world  which  has  opened 
its  heart  to  him.  Why  should  lie  seek  revenge? 
From  caprice;  because  he  has  discovered  that  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cup  was  jioison  ;  because,  dwelling  in 
the  hearts  of  women,  he  found  the  hell  that  was  there 
concealed.  But,  believe  it,  he  sought  vengeance, 
because,  as  a  poet  has  said,  he  felt  the  shores  of 
youth  gliding-  .^way. 

'89  has  struck,  like  the  funeral  knell  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  Let  us  follow  this  man,  who  is  begin- 
ning to  be  old  ;  but  who,  by  his  actions,  wishes  to 
persuade  himself  that  he  is  still  young.  Let  us  follow 
him,  step  by  step.  Do  yon  see  him,  at  first,  in  those 
noisy  orgies  of  the  Palais  Royal,  S'  ated  at  the  right 
of  the  prince,  whose  councillor  he  is. — "Libert}'!  re- 
public I"  cry  all  these  men  of  wit  after  supper,  who 
fancy  themselves  proud  Romans;  "Liberty!  repub- 
lic!"—  The  cry  issues  from  the  Palais  Royal,  like  a 
cannon-ball,  against  the  palace  of  the  Tuilei'ies.  Fol- 
low the  most  excited  of  them  all.    Beliold  him  di'awing 


A    REVOLUTIONIST.  227 

ap  Willi  Brissot  tlie  famous  petition  of  the  Cliarrip  do 
Mars,  calling  for  the  trial  of  Louis  XYI.  1'hat  is  not 
all ;  he  makes  himself  the  orator  of  the  street,  like 
Camiile  Desmoulir.s,  on  the  day  of  the  taking  of  the 
Bastile  ;  he  draws  in  his  train  all  the  passions  of  the 
mob.  A  moment  ago,  he  demanded  the  trial  of  the 
kinir;  it  is  the  head  of  Louis  XYL  that  he  now 
demands.  The  oratoi"s  of  the  clubs  are  jealous  of  the 
orator  of  the  street,  they  imprison  him  to  rid  them- 
selves from  his  furious  ambition.     Is  it  over? 

Xo ;  on  the  fifth  of  October,  1803,  do  you  see  that 
man  at  Tarento  who  is  dying,  worn  out  by  every 
passion,  good  and  evil  ?  On  the  previous  night  lie 
had  still  fought.  Grateful  France  will  not,  perhaps, 
inscribe  his  name  on  a  triumphal  arch ;  but  v.-ill  she 
forget  that  the  general  of  artillery,  Chau-Ierlos  c>e  la 
Clos,  author  of  the  Liaisons  Dangereuses^  fought 
heroically  for  her,  on  the  Ehine  and  in  Italy  ? 

Thus  is  this  life  of  La  Clos  a  varied  picture,  by 
turns,  as  we  have  seen,  a  stern  soldier,  caring  only  for 
his  sword  ;  a  gallant  chevalier,  frequenting  gay  soci- 
iety  and  the  tside  'ccnes,  a  writ/^r  of  satire  and  scan- 
dal; an  impassioned  orator;  at  las'.,  a  great  captain; 
arid  yet  in  this  introductory  sketch,  we  have  only 
point'jd  out  the  principal  outlines.  Let  us  examine 
more  clo.v;ly  this  complex  figure. 

Aparc  i'l'oni  a  very  brilliant  paradox,  by  the  author 
OT  Barnave^  v.-y  find  no  literary  mention  of  La  Clos. 
It  Gsoms  K3  if  Ihe  future  was  desirous  of  forgetting 
thi:;  r.'ime,  v.fiich  it  would  lie  ujijust  to  bury  in  the 
LtninonH  Dr,  u/ereusps.  This  romance!  may  be  niithiiig 
more  than  a  curious  monuim'iit  ol"  a  ju-riiKJ  which 
liar,  disafipcarod  ;  but  has  not  La  Clos  raised  himself 


2SS8  TIIR    CIIEVALrER   DE   LA    CLOS. 

from  this  sad  moiimnent  by  liis  Icanied  investigations 
on  artillery,  and,  above  all  by  his  glorious  camjxiigns? 
La  Clos  is  unknown  to  the  new  generation ;  and  this 
io;norance  docs  them  honor;  none  but  a  few  scholars 
and  men  curious  in  literature  hunt  up  his  romance. 
I  have  not  been  able  to  discover  an  engraved  portrait 
of  him.     The  king  had,  at  En  or  Neuiily,  a  fine  por- 
trait of  La  Clos;    only  one  other  exists,  a  crayon 
sketch,  in  three  tints,  drawn  by  Carmoutel,  during 
an  evening  at  the  Palais  Royal.     It  is  a  full-length 
portrait,  which  I  have  been  permitted  to  see,  as  a 
priceless  curiosity.     La  Clos  is  seated  near  a  back- 
gammon-table, leaning  on  his  elbow,  and  thoughtful, 
but  it  is  not  the  game  which  occupies  him.    His  face 
bears  the  impress  of  about  forty-five.    It  is  a  counte- 
nance more  intelligent  than  beautiful ;  the  lines  are 
strong,  but  a  little  sharp.     That  which  first  strikes 
the   eye    is    a    prominent   forehead,   a   scrutinizing 
eye.  an  expression  philosophical  to  excess,  betraying 
neithei-  warmth  of  soul  nor  good  nature.     He,  per- 
haps, committed  the  grave  f^iult  of  being  profoundly 
conscious  that  his  ]>ortrait  v.'as  being  taken,  a  general 
failing,  and  from  whicl)  men  of  wit  are  not  exempt. 
J)urin<r  this  ei^-bteenth  centurv,  v.'lu^u  no  one  believed 
in  anything,  their  very  nnmc,  tJie  name  of  their  father, 
the  most  noble  part  of  their  heritage,  was  no  long(a*  a 
sacred  thing.     In  that  very  liteiature  in  which  titles 
were  so  cleverly  ridlcalod,  the  M'riters  emulously  as- 
sumed names  having  an  air  of  nobility.     In  all  r.r:cs, 
men  have  taken  pleasure  in  inconriGtency.     Fonte- 
nelle  and  Crebillon  set  the  example;  it  is  well  brown 
that  their  real  names  were  Le  Bouvier  and    Jollyot. 
A  nobi.ity  <>i  the  pen  was  then  seen  to  dawn.     Some 


CHAUDERLOS.  220 

sincere  men,  some  frank  natures,  not  liavinp;  entirely 
lost  their  family  pride,  as  Piron,  Diderot,  Gilbert, 
were  content  to  make  their  names  simple  as  they 
were  illnstrious ;  bnt  how  many  others  have  made 
illnstrions  a  name  not  borne  by  their  fathci-s  !  Yon 
would  be  surprised  if  I  should  make  a  catalogue 
of  all  the  names,  thrown  aside  like  old  garments  that 
did  not  fit  the  figure.  Thus,  you  know  Poqaelin 
and  Arouet,  but  do  yon  know  M.  de  Bouvier,  M, 
Carlet,  M.  Farad  is,  M.  Pinot,  M.  Carton,  M.  Claris, 
M.  Pierres,  M.  Jollyot,  M.  Caron,  M.  Xericault? 
At  the  last  day,  the  destroj'ing  angel,  not  having  in- 
scribed these  writers  under  their  true  names,  will 
himself  have  much  trouble  in  recognising  Fontenelle, 
Marivaux,  Montcrif,  Dnclos,  Dancourt,  Florian,  Ber- 
nis,  Crebillon,  Bcaumarchais,  Dcstouches. 

The  wit  and  the  general,  my  present  subject,  was 
called  neither  more  nor  less  than  Chauderlos.  How 
could  one  make  such  a  name  illustrious  by  anything 
fhort  of  conquering  the  world,  or  discovering  anotlu-r? 
The  Iliad^  and  all  the  other  epic  poems,  cov.ld  never 
h^ve  transmitted  so  unfortunate  :i  name  to  posterity. 
If  Bonaparte  had  been  called  Chauderlos,  St.  Helena, 
tliat  poetic  symljol  of  all  inndern  gloiy,  v/ould  not  fill 
all  the  avenues  of  the  nineteenth  century, 

Chauderlos  did  not  wish  to  undertake  to  make  his 
father's  name  illriStrious.  His  mother  was  a  Demoi- 
selle La  Clos;  he  found  it  moD  sii.iple  and  more  con- 
venient to  call  hiin>elf  de  la.  Clos,  and  <.-A'cn  the  Chev- 
alier de  la  l/los;   lie  did  "^o,  and  n'-body  oonipl.ained. 

Pi';rre  And)roif:c  C'lfvudcjlos,  Chevalier  de  li 
Clfis,  was  born  at  Ami'-i'  in  1741,  and  died  at 
Tarento,  in  ISO.'].     Thn.4  h.^  ['assed  through   -ill  the 

20 


230  THE  riTKVAr.ii:u   dk  i,a  clos. 

pleasures  flie  follies,  and  tlie  graiukmrs,  of  the  mobi 
curious  lialf-century  in  the  histoiy  of  France.  His 
father,  a  gentleman,  or  small  proprietor,  of  Pieai'dy, 
designed  him  for  a  soldier;  La  Clos  entered,  as  a 
candidate,  the  corps  of  engineers,  where  he  "was  ap- 
pointed a  sub-lieutenant,  at  eighteen.  lie  made  his 
finest  campaigns  in  the  hotels  of  1760,  from  the  ante- 
chamber  to  the  oratory. 

A  nuin  of  noble  stature,  ex})ressive  countenance, 
very  gallant  figure,  accustomed  at  an  early  oge  to  ths 
manners  of  good  society,  and  theatrical  intrigues, 
liandling  well  his  sword  and  pen,  bold  even  to  im- 
pertinence, witty  even  to  satire,  he  passed  in  the 
gayest  manner  through  the  world,  from  conquest  to 
conquest. 

lie  tried  the  vanities  of  literature.  He  made  his 
debut  in  poetry,  like  Rivarol  and  Rulhiere,  by  a  fan- 
ciful epistle  to  a  fashionable  young  woman.  His 
Jl^pistle  to  Mar<jot  is  equal  to  Voltaire's  minor  poems, 
for  its  ease  and  wit.  Widely  known  in  the  theatrical 
M'orld,  he  availed  himself  of  this  advantage  to  pro- 
duce a  comic  opera.  He  had  been  led  into  this  easy 
style  of  composition  by  an  American,  then  in  fashion, 
M.  de  St.  George,  who  rested  himself  from  his  duels 
by  composing  musi..'.  It  has  not  been  forgotten,  that 
tliis  music  was  more  ingenious  than  learned,  display- 
ing more  spnght'iness  than  character.  La  Clos  had 
rc-id  many  romances  :  he  borrowed  the  subject  and 
title  of  his  opera  from  a  romance  of  liladame  Ricco- 
boni,  Ernestine.  It  will  be  remarked  t/sat  La  Clos 
did  not  display  much  invention.  During  tlie  rrpre- 
Hentation  (I  (;o  -lOt  say  the  first,  for  tlvre  were  not 
two),  La  Clos  and  lit.  George,  like  good  fellovvs  who 


ai'e  ready  for  anything,  walked  up  v.rA  down,  boaiiid 
the  scenes,  pulling-  tlie  actresses'  bouquets  to  ])ieces, 
and  promising  them  a  good  supper  if  the  piece  failed. 
Doubtless,  ttiey  wanted  to  sup,  but  they  did  not  ex- 
pect to  be  taken  at  their  word.  Never  was  comic 
opera  more  merrily  hissed  by  the  pit:  toward  the 
middle  of  the  piece,  the  whole  audience  attempted 
variations,  which  prognosticated  the  destiny  of  ^r- 
nestine.  The  piece  was  saluted  at  the  fall  of  the 
ciu'tain  by  a  chorus  of  hisses. — "  If  we  had  not  already 
licaten  one  another,"  said  the  poet  to  the  musician, 
"'  I  could  find  gi-eat  pleasure  in  cutting  your  throat." 
— "And  why  miiie?"  said  the  furious  American, 
who  had  not  the  courage  to  jest  over  his  defeat;  "for 
you  nuist  ackno^^'ledge  that  it  was  your  words  which 
lost  all." — "Trulv!  Do  3-ou  ima<j;ine  that  thev  lis- 
toned  to  the  words  ?  The  music  was  quite  sufficient !" 
The  two  collaborators  had  assumed  a  sort  of  hu- 
morously-menacing attitude,  when  the  ])retty  Mad- 
craoiseiie  Olympia,  who  played  the  part  of  Ernestine, 
threw  herself  between  them  in  alarm. — "I  am  lost  I" 
she  exclaimod  despairingly;  "'tis  the  second  time 
this  week  I  have  been  hissed." — "Do  not  crrieve," 
said  La  Clos ;  "  with  such  eyes  as  yours,  you  can  al- 
ways recox'er  yourself.  Come  and  sup  with  me." — 
"  'With  ire !"  said  St.  George,  seizing  the  actress. — • 
"Witi.  neither  of  you,"  said  she,  repelling  the  mn- 
?!ir:an ;  "  I  do  n.  t  want  to  hear  anything  moi'c  of  yon ; 
a  man  who  has  made  me  sing,  f((  ti  ta  hi  to  tl  — 
that's  worth  the  tronble  of  singing,  truly  I" — "You 
are  right,"  said  La  Clos;'  "it  is  suju'rannnatod  ninsic, 
unw.^i-thy  of  hO  sweet  a  mouth.  You  would  jiavc 
done  better  fx)  liave  pp"ken  my  words  without  singing 


232         THE  CHEVALIER  DE  LA  CLOS. 

tliem."  —  "Ah,  I  advise  you  to  talk  in  that  style. 
You  have  forgotten,  then,  how  I  was  received  when 
I  sang  — 

Wine  is  tlic  cause  of  love, 
And  love  the  cause  of  diink. 

Saj'ing  these  words,  Olympia  ran  oif  and  disap- 
peared in  the  recesses  of  the  park  of  painted  pa- 
per. While  La  Clos  pursued  her,  St.  George  sought 
the  other  actors  of  the  piece.  Not  one  of  them 
would  sup  in  his  company,  so  desperate  had  been 
the  failure.  It  mi<fiit  have  been  called  a  field  of 
battle,  where  the  vanquished  thinks  only  of  retreat. 
In  vain  did  the  authors  pursue  the  actors  as  far  as 
their  dressing-rooms,  they  could  not  find  one  to  sup 
with  them.  As  they  met  again  at  the  door  of  the 
theatre,  they  looked  at  one  another,  with  a  peal  of 
laughter  :  "  Shall  we  not  sup  ?"  said  La  Clos. 

St.  George  took  his  ai-m  and  led  him  to  the 
Cafe  de  la  Regence.  They  entered  wnth  elevated 
heads  like  conquerors.  As  they  passed  haughtily 
by  a  group  of  chess-players,  they  jostled  a  spectator 
who,  in  preserving  his  balance,  pushed  his  neighbor 
on  the  chessmen.  It  was  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  who 
turned  round  furiously:  "You  intend  to  insult  me^" 
said  he,  pale  and  gloomy,  fancying  that  he  saw  his 
imaginary  enemies ;  for  at  that  time,  like  Pascal, 
lie  saw  everywhere  an  abyss,  or  rather  death. 
"  Corbleu,  monsieur,"  said  La  Clop,  who  did  not 
know  the  face  of  the  celebrated  philosoj)her  of  Ge- 
neva, "  do  you  know  who  I  am  ?"  Everybody 
t'lmed  toward  La  Clos,  with  a  movement  of  lively 
and    resj^ectful   curiosity,    the    players    themselves 


THE    EEIGN    OF   THE    rHiLOSOPHEKS.  23^ 

raised  their  heads  — "  Know  that  you  must  not 
speak  to  me  without  respect,  for  I  am  an  unsuccess- 
ful author." 

Grimm,  alhiding  to  this  opera,  says,  that  the  genius 
of  Pergolese  could  not  have  sustained  such  words. 
Bachaumont  is  not  more  favorable.  "  The  author 
has  prudently  remained  incognito  ;  excellent  music 
would  have  lost  all  its  value,  adapted  to  this  ilat  and 
detestable  opera." 

La  Clos  was  not  desirous  of  trying  the  chances  of 
the  stage  a  second  time.  He  cast  himself  still  deeper 
into  the  follies  of  the  age,  passing  from  the  side 
scenes  to  the  boudoir,  from  the  boudoir  to  the  wine- 
shop. 

However,  in  this  fine  time  they  were  no  longer 
content  with  seduction  —  the  reign  of  Richelieu 
began  to  wane,  Jean-Jacques  had  arrived.  A  thou- 
sand idlers  around  him  echoed  his  words.  Every  one 
vrao  f-.nxious  to  preach  in  his  turn.  There  was  preach- 
ing everywhere  except  in  the  churcli,  everywhere 
in  fashionable  circles,  in  boudoirs,  even  in  bed-cham- 
bers. More  than  one  philosopher  of  the  side-scenes 
wrote  his  pamphlets  against  the  manners  of  the  age 
on  the  knees  tf  an  actress.  La  Clos  wanted  to  be 
heard.  He  had  raised  the  veil  of  the;  passions  of 
society  at  the  saddest  hour,  as  Diderot  had  raised 
the  veil  of  those  of  tlie  c.t^iveiit.  He  mended  his 
pen,  and  witliout  pity  for  the  society  which  liad 
nursed  him  softlj"- on  its  guilty  breast,  illumii.atcd  its 
li'.'itnres  with  a  horrid  glare  by  writing  rh^  Li<iisov.s 
l)an(jei'en.'if.'<.  (/n^billon  the  Gay,  who  at'AV  every- 
thing in  a  laughing  mood,  liad  written  of  the  same 
fK>ciety ;  but  his  books  were  a  deceprfvc  nnrror,  cov- 

20* 


20  1-  THE    CIIKVALIEB    DlC    LA    CLOS. 

erod  with  roses  and  giiuze,  wliicli  reflected  onl^ 
agreeable  scandals.  lu  place  of  these  pretty  patches 
or'  color,  .indderdy  appears  a  painter  without  tinsel, 
who  treads  uiider  foot  the  gauze  and  roses  to  repro- 
duce the  truth  in  all  its  nakedness.  At  lirst  glance, 
however,  ha\'e  we  not  still  the  heroes  and  heroines 
of  Crcbiilon  :  there  is  the  same  smile  and  the  same 
grace,  silk  and  velvet,  gold  and  flowers — nothir.g  is 
wanting.  But  look  closer.  Do  you  not  see  the 
lijart  which  struijriJ'les  and  contends  with  evil  ?  Soci- 
ety  went  every  evening,  after  supper,  a  step  toward 
ruin.  It  had  been  playful  in  its  vices,  it  had  com- 
mitted, laughingly,  as  in  a  freak,  crimes  prettily- 
colored  and  2)erfumed ;  it  ended,  from  being  a  gay 
sinner,  with  becoming  seriously  criminal,  for  the  sole 
pleasure  of  committing  crime.  It  was  then  that  La 
Olos  seized  it  for  his  picture.  Seeing  itseif  in  this 
gloomy  picture,  society  became  frightened  at  it. 
However,  wi!l  it  be  believed  \  Far  from  coverins; 
its  head  with  ashes,  it  took  pleasure  in  ^'azing  oi; 
the  features  the  painter  had  ]'e})roduced  in  y.U 
the  horrible  truth  which  issues  from  an  impure 
fount:un. 

The  novel  of  La  Clos  was  read,  therefore,  ".'.'it-h 
avidity  and  v.'i'h  terror.  Everybody  wisned  to  ?,j-.i 
the  man  who  wrote  thus.  Far  from  shutting  the  do'.-r 
on  him,  th3y  invir*?<i  Idm  to  enter.  La  Cios  hud 
said  to  every  one,  ''I  know  you  under  your  manl:/* 
And  all,  Sv.?Ang  a  man  who  knew  all  secrets  ?«o  v/e.i, 
fa-ttered  him  in  four  lest  he  might  speak  too  lor- 1 
Without  disguising  the  names. 

The  success  of  the  book  was  prodigious.  csfuc:?,lly 
m  the  saloons.     It  even  formed  a  literary  cpocli,  hA 


LIAISONS    DAA'GEKEUSES.  235 

ti.e  most  difficult  critics,  Grimm  for  example,  admit- 
ted from  the  first,  that  it  required  a  vast  and  diversi- 
fied talent  to  write  such  a  book.  The  novel  appeared 
mider  this  title  :  "Z<?.5  Liaisons  Dangereuses^  or  Let- 
ter's collected  in  Society,  and  published  for  the  bene- 
fit of  others,  by  M.  C.  do  L ;"  with  this  motto : 

"  I  have  seen  the  manners  of  my  time,  and  I  have 
]Miblished  these  letters."  Grimm  thus  announced 
this  book  to  the  soveixiigus  of  the  north :  "  There  has 
not  been  a  work,  not  even  excepting  those  of  Orebil- 
lon,  in  which  the  disorder  of  principles  and  manners 
of  what  is  called  good  society,  and  which  we  can 
scarcely  after  all  avoid  calling  so,  has  been  described 
with  more  truth,  boldness,  and  wit.  !N"o  one  will, 
therefore,  be  astonished  at  all  the  ill  that  the  women 
feel  obliged  to  say  against  it.  However  great  the 
pleasure  which  the  perusal  has  given  them,  it  has 
not  been  without  some  degree  of  chagrin.  How  can 
a  man  pass  for  anything  else  than  a  monster,  mIio 
knows  their  secret  so  well  and  keeps  it  so  badly? 
]Iowever,  while  they  detest,  they  fear,  admire,  and 
fete  him;  the  man  of  the  day  and  his  historian,  the 
model  and  the  painter,  are  treated  almost  in  the 
same  manner.  Whatever  bad  opinion  mc  may  have 
of  Parisian  society,  we  would  find,  J  inuigine,  very 
few  intrigues  as  dangerous  for  a  yoimg  person  as 
the  perusal  c>f  the  Liaisons  DangeiNiusKsP 

We  will  refriiin  from  recalling  the  scenes  of  this 
novel,  much  better  calcuhited  to  depiave  than  to  re- 
form its  reader.' ;  but  we  recognise  in  it  an  energetic 
painter,  more  ocoujiied  witli  the  outline,  idea,  and 
character,  tlifui  die  color.  Wi-  can  not  Iim.  niucl'.  ad- 
iTiire  the   naivete  and   even  the  stupidity  of  (V'cilo 


•23()  THE   CIIEVALIEii   DE    I- A    01.08. 

Yolanges.  A  man  of  mediocre  talent  has  never 
dared  to  portray  a  stupid  woman.  There  are  such  ; 
Cecile  Vohmoes  forms  the  hapi);est  contrast  to  Ma 
dame  de  Mertenil  wlio  is  the  demon  of  wit.  An- 
other, not  less  happy  contrast,  is  the  romantic  virtue 
of  Madame  de  Tourvel,  opposed  to  the  fine  vices  of 
the  Viscount  de  Yalmont. 

La  Clos  is  not  entirely  the  author  of  his  hook. 
Without  Clarissa  Ilarloioe^  the  Nouvelle  Ilaloise^ 
and  the  Itellgieuse^  who  Icnows  Avhether  he  would 
have  written  this  novel,  many  of  the  pages  of  whicli 
are  merely  echoes?  We  perceive  Richardson,  Jean- 
Jacques,  and  Diderot,  in  the  Liaisons  Dangereupes. 
La  Clos  was  ]iot  endowed  with  that  creative  genius, 
which  inspires  an  original  work  without  foreign  aid. 
La  Clos  was  a  man  of  wit,  who  could  see  the  world  at 
the  moment  Truth  diffused  her  light.  After  having 
seen,  he  wished  to  paint,  but  scarcely  knowing  how  to 
oketch,he  tookthe  pencil  of  theEnglish  romance-writer, 
the  palette  of  Diderot,  and  the  brush  of  Jean- Jacques. 
Influenced  by  trutli,  indignation,  or  the  love  of  no- 
toriety and  scandal,  guided  by  these  illustrious  mas- 
ters, he  succeeded  in  producing  a  living  work.  For 
the  back-gronnd,  we  discover  at  once  that  La  Clcj 
has  contented  himself  with  transporting  the  charac- 
ters of  Clarissa  JIarlowe  to  Paris.  He  has  dark- 
ened them,  and  that  is  his  secret.  His  true  merit  is 
to  have  framed  them  after  the  manner  of  the  time. 
As  regards  the  form,  we  at  once  recognise  the  pas- 
sionate, flowing,  energetic  expression  o^  \\\e  liouvelle 
TTeloise.  As  for  the  color  and  the  truth  they  are  de- 
rived the  Religieiise.  This  remark  of  Grimm  pf.inta 
La  Clos  in  vivid  colors  :  "  If  Ilctif  de  la  Bietonne 


TL^KNS    KEBIOUS    VfRYTm.  ?3? 


is  t}jc  J^ousseau  of  the  giittor,  Chnuderlos  de  la  Clos 
is  the  Ptetif  do  la  Bretoiuie  of  goc-d  society."* 

In  17S2,  when  he  published  the  Liaisons  Dan- 
gereuses^  La  Clos  was,  doubtless,  man-ied.  On  this 
point  particularly,  details  are  entirely  wai^ting. 
Michaud,  in  his  dictionary,  which  it  would  be  vseful 
to  supersede,  contents  himself  vv'ith  saying  :  *•'  A  good 
son,  a  good  father,  a  good  husband.''  What  became 
of  his  children  ? 

In  ITSf),  W3  find  Chauderlos  de  la  Clos  a  warrior. 
a  serious  writer,  endeavoring  to  caf^t  into  oblivion 
the  Liaisons  Dangereuses  by  a  paper  before  the 
French  Academy,  wliich  had  proposed  a  eulogy  on 
Vauban  as  the  siibject  for  the  prize  in  eloquence  for 
that  year.  At  that  time.  La  Clos  no  longer  read 
Itichardson,  but  Polybius.  His  paper  has  this  motto  : 
"  Endeavor  to  make  your  discourse  useful  rather  than 
brilliant."  La  Clos  is  very  ftir  from  being  the  eulogist 
of  Yauban.  lie  admits  that  the  illustrious  marshal 
originated  the  art  of  properly  attacking  a  j)lace,  but 
he  condemn;',  him  for  having  passed  all  his  life  in 
fortifying  without  discovering  the  art  of  fortification. 
lie  accuses  him  (the  accusation  has  been  refuted  in 
the  Journal  des  Savants)  of  liaving  sunk  fourteen 
hundred  and  forty  millions  with  terrible  prodigality, 
"  to  build  up  with  one  hand  the  fortresses  which  he 
80  readily  threw  down  with  the  other.  Who  could 
praise  him,  after  liaving  cost  France  more  tl  an  half 

•  While  writing  this,  a  contemporary  ot"  La  Clos,  the  3ame  \vh: 
has  alre^.ly  piv»  n  me  a  si^ht  of  tlie  author  of  the  Jjl/.i.iiiits  I)inm;t<: 
euaei,  in  the  drawing  of  Carniontcl,  assures  loc  that  all  the  characters 
of  this  romance  arc  portraits  from  life.  The  incidents  took  place  at 
Grennl)!e,  as  La  Clos  has  related  thern,  with  the  exception  '-f  a  few 
episodes  which  may  be  reminiscences  of  liie  youth  of  the  novelist. 


23S  TllK    CllKVALIKU    DE    LA    CLOS. 

of  the  present  natioiuil  debt,  and  leavhiii;  a  portioi*  of 
lier  frontiers  exposed  ?  The  system  of  M.  de  Yau- 
ban  is  no  more  than  a  system  of  bastions,  known  a', 
the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  reguhirly  em- 
bodied ns  early  as  1567  in  the  citadel  of  Antwerp." 
AVhen  he  wrote  this  memoir,  still  worthy  of  being 
consulted,*  La  Clos  was  at  La  Rochelle,  where 
there  was  doubtless  an  academy ;  for  the  memoir  is 
signed,  Chauderlos  de  la  Clos,  of  the  Academy  of 
La  Itochelle, 

In  ITS 7,  La  Clos  again  became  a  poet,  of  which 
he  gave  evidence  by  a  lively  whimsicality  on  Oros- 
manes,  in  reference  to  the  tragedy  of  Yoltaire.  We 
regret  that  we  have  not  been  able  in  spite  of  all  our 
researches,  to  discover  the  collection  of  La  Clos's 
poems,  in  which  the  man  must,  doubtless,  here  and 
there,  appear  beneath  the  poet. 

Up  to  1789,  La  Clos  lived  always  a  gallant  aiul 
a  satirist,  alwavs  loved  and  sou2;ht  after  in  the 
fashionable  world  which  he  had  described.  During 
the  earlier  storms  of  the  Kevolution,  he  raised  his 
liead,  and  once  again  turned  against  this  poor  soci- 
ety, to  which  he  owed  the  splendor  of  his  youth. 
He  became  intimate  with  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  the 
misguided  prince  M'ho  evoked  tlie  tempest,  and  who 
died  without  fear,  lie  wrote  ])olitics  in  violent  news- 
])apers,  among  others  in  the  Journal  of  the  Friends 
<>f  the  Constitution. ^  He  always  v»'ent  straight  for- 
ward, without  fear  and  without  regret.     lie  drew  up 

•  Cnrnot,  the  member  of  the  convention,  published  observations  on 
tliis  tiKTiioir. 

^  .lnurn;il  of  tliR  Jacobins,  at  a  later  date  Journal  of  the  Frier.ds 
or  ratbrr  the  enemies,  of  the  Constitution. 


/KATOR    OF    TIIK    CLUES.  23& 

vrith  Brissot  tlie  petition  of  tlie  Champ  de  Mars, 
which  called  for  the  sentence  of  Louis  XYI.  On 
that  day  the  orator  harGug-ntd  ^3  rabble,  and  at- 
tracted  to  iiim  all  the  passions  of  the  streets.  "Will 
it  be  believed  ?  This  success  ',rith  the  mob  turned 
the  head  of  him  who  had  shone  at  his  ease  in  gilded 
saloons,  among  silk  gov.-ns  and  broidered  coats.  lie 
placed  his  eloquence  at  tlie  service  of  the  clubs,  and 
■wherever  he  sa'.r  the  people  assembled  he  turned 
orator,  and  poured  forth  bitter  sarcasms  against  the 
nobilit}'. 

After  having  made  his  marl:  in  Jul)-,  1T89,  at  the 
club  of  Montronge,  which  was  the  club  of  the  Or- 
leanist  nobles  or  Encyclopaedists,  La  Clos  showed 
himself  very  powerful  by  his  eloquence  and  bold- 
ness at  the  club  of  the  Feuillants,  at  the  Palais 
Royal,  at  the  Hill  of  the  Mills. 

The  political  career  of  La  Clos  commenced  there- 
fore with  the  first  movements  of  thellevolution.  He 
liad  lived  fur  several  years  in  intimate  familiary  with 
the  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  appreciated  the  resources 
of  the  military  genius  of  the  captain  of  artillery,  as 
well  as  the  philosophical  and  satirical  wit  of  the  nov- 
elist. "VYe  can  not  say  whether  La  Clos,  who  was  a 
reckless  revolutionist,  labored  for  liberty  or  for  the 
Duke  of  Orleans ;  perhaps  he  labored  for  both.  It 
is  beyond  doubt  that  he  displayed  up  to  the  death 
of  the  king,  in  the  clubs,  the  journals,  and  on  tlu- 
field  of  battle,  the  boldness  inculcated  by  Danton. 

He  had  ended  by  withdrawing  from  the  tern 
pest,  wishing  Uj  breathe  in  freedom  "  fai'  IVoni  llu 
saturnalia  of  liberty."  But  as  soon  as  the  country 
wa-;  declared   in  danger  lie  resumed  service.      II- 


£40  TUE    CHEVALIER   DE   LA    OLOS. 

was  appointed  colonel  of  artilleiy  under  the  old 
General  Luckner,  We  may  aceoixl  La  Clos  tlie  en- 
■^irc  ;;,dory  of  the  campaio-ii,  for  the  general  allowed 
Iiiniself  to  be  governed  by  his  colonel. 

TTowever,  as  it  was  desirable  to  get  rid  of  a  man 
as  dangerous  for  his  genius  as  his  boldne.-'s,  he  was 
on  his  return  from  the  campaign,  appointed  governor 
of  the  Frencli  establishments  in  India.  But  how- 
could  he  lose  sight  of  the  great  drama  in  which  he 
played  a  part  ?     He  chose  to  remain  on  the  stage. 

After  the  5th  and  6th  of  Octo1)er,  he  went  over  to 
England  with  the  Duke  of  Orleans.  He  returned 
to  France  only  to  be  imprisoned.  His  military  genius 
consoled  him  in  prison.  He  sent  Robespierre  some 
suggestions  on  political  reform,  which  tlie  too  cele- 
brated orator  embodied  in  his  own  speeches.  La  Clos 
obtained  liberty  to  go  to  La  Fere,  to  make  ti-ial  of  a  new 
species  of  projectile,  which  was,  accordiiig  to  him,  more 
terrible  than  a  thunderbolt.  The  trial  succeeded  as 
he  wished,  and  surprised  all  the  officers  present. 
Eut  at  Paris  they  thought  him  a  dangerous  man,  and 
sent  him  back  to  pjrison.  His  jjroject  was  aban- 
doned, and,  as  an  historian  remarks,  "  is  among  the 
number  of  forgotten  inventions,  which  will  return  to 
us  some  day  from  abroad." 

Much  astonishment  has  been  expressed,  tliat  La 
Clos  should  have  escaped  the  fate  of  the  Duke  of 
Orleans,  since  he  was  arrested  as  an  Orleanist.  Bi- 
ographers, who  were  his  contemporaries,  declare,  that 
nc  owed  his  safety  only  to  his  talent  and  address.  If 
liabbe,  and  some  accounts  of  the  time,  are  to  be  be- 
lieved, La  Clos  was  the  author  of  I'obespierrc's 
speeches.     This  is  a  point  of  history  v  hich  can  not 


EOBESPIEREE    A    TLAGIAKIST.  241 

be  discussed  liere.  We  have  scarcely  formed  an 
opinion;  we  shall,  therefore,  take  care  not  to  express 
any  on  either  side.  We  have,  however,  had  the 
curiosity  to  study  the  style  of  La  Clos  in  the  Journal 
of  the  Friends  of  the  Constitution^  in  the  Gallery  of 
the  States-General^  where  we  recognise  him  between 
Mirabeau  and  Ilivarol,his  fellow-laborers.  We  have 
re-read  Robespierre's  speeches,  and,  why  should  we 
not  speak  out  ?  Robespierre  appears  to  us  to  be  wholly 
comprised  in  La  Clos.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
in  three  or  four  important  speeches,  Robespierre  sur- 
prised everybody,  especially  his  friends,  who  did  not 
]>elieve  in  his  eloquence.  But,  it  will  be  said.  La 
Clos,  after  the  death  of  Robespierre,  would  have 
avowed  himself  the  author  of  the  speeches.  Why 
should  he  have  done  so  ?  La  Clos  was  above  the 
need  of  this  still  perilous  gloiy ;  and  besides,  it 
would  have  been  the  avowal  of  an  act  of  cowardice. 
Wc  nnist,  however,  believe,  since  some  one  was 
found  to  record  it,  that  La  Clos  must  have  said  so, 
tliDUgh  it  might  have  been  but  once. 

This  man  was  always  ready  for  anything.  After 
the  9tli  Thermidor,  Tallien,  fearing  him  in  his  turn, 
and  wisliing  to  put  him  out  of  politics^  gave  him 
the  supervision  of  mortgages.  La  Clos,  according 
t<»  his  custom,  marked  his  tenure  of  office  by  re- 
forms. Director  of  mortgages  !  a  curious  position  in 
those  vears  of  Vmble,  when  no  man's  land  was 
par red. 

I{'>nai>aite,  having  become  first  consul,  a])pointcd 
La  Clo.s  gcTUM'al  of  a  biigade  in  the  army  of  tho 
lihine,  where  ho  distinguished  himself  among  tho 
bravest.      \\v   |ia.--sed    thence    into  Italy  with   Mar- 

21 


243  'iiiK  ciii:v.\r,Ti:R  de  la  clos. 

inoiit,  and  took  part  tlieiv  in  tlic  most  i2;lorious  feats  of 
ann>i.  I)Oiiai>aite,  observinir  that  La  Clos  luid  Itceii  a 
])n»t()un<l  stndont  of  inankiiid,  gave  liiin,  on  hit?  retni'n 
to  France,  some  missions  of  the  most  delicate  character. 
At  hist,  to  ijive  a  strikini;  proof  of  his  esteem,  lie  ap 
])ointed  him  coimnander  t)f  the  artillery  destined  for 
the  coasts  of  Italy.  Scarce,  however,  had  La  Clos 
arrived  at  Tarento,  Avhen  he  sank,  overcome  by  ten 
vears  of  nnremittinar  strui^i^les.  lie  died  without 
thinking  of  death,  his  mind  preoccupied  with  the 
future  glories  of  France.  One  of  his  officers  pro- 
posed for  his  epita])h  these  six  glorious  words: 
"  Good  citizen,  brave  soldier,  loyal  friend.'" 

A  strange  destiny  was  theirs  who  commenced  their 
career  under  the  reign  of  Madame  Duban-y,  and 
closed  it  under  that  of  Bonaparte  !  a  picture  sketched 
out  by  Boucher  and  finished  by  David  ! 

On  the  first  publication  of  the  above  essay  on 
Chauderlos  de  la  Clos,  I  received  a  note  couched  in 
the  following  terms  :  — 

"  You  have  appreciated  La  Clos  justly ;  your 
statements  are  for  the  most  part  exact ;  but  why 
have  you  not  opened  the  Almanac  of  T'wenty-Jive 
Thousand  Addresses  V 

I  opened  the  Almanac  in  question,  and  found 
there,  Choderlos  de  la  Clos^  eligible^  15  Rue  dePro- 
vt'noe.  I  went  to  the  Kue  Provence,  where  I  learned 
that  M.  Choderlos  de  la  Clos  had  died  during  the 
past  year.     I  was  directed  to  his  brother-in-law,  M. 

Ij de  T ,  whose  garden  lies  under  my  Min- 

dows.  On  my  return  I  found  a  card  at  my  house 
from  M.  B de  T .     T  went  to  his  residence. 


MARRIAGE.  24S 

Altliough  only  connected  by  marriage,  M.  B de 

T is  a  true  member  of  the  family  of  La  Clos  by 

his  wit. 

He  told  me  what  I  knew,  and  what  I  did  not 
know. 

The  father  of  Choderlos  ae  la  Clos  was  of  Moorish 
descent. 

I  had  said,  on  the  authority  of  the  Biography  of 
Michaud,  "A  good  son,  a  good  husband,  a  good 
father."  The  following  is  tlie  history  of  his  mar- 
riage :  Mademoiselle  Duperre  was  one  of  the  noblest 
and  fairest  heiresses  of  La  Bochelle.  As  her  mother 
was  dead,  she  did  the  honors  of  the  house  of  M. 
Duperre.  She  learned  one  day  that  M.  de  la 
Clos,  the  author  of  the  Liaisons  Donfjerexises^  had 
come  to  La  Bochelle  to  pass  at  least  one  season,  hi 
order  to  continue  his  studies  on  artillery.  "Xever," 
she  exclaimed,  with  horror,  "  never  shall  M.  de  la 
Clos  be  received  in  our  house."  La  Clos  answered 
tlic  officious  friend,  who  repeated  the  remark  to  him, 
"I  am  thinking  of  marrying;  and  intend  to  marry 
Mademoiselle  Duperi-e  before  six  montlis."  In  fact, 
six  months  afterward.  La  Clos  was  the  brother-in- 
law  of  the  young  sailor,  who  became  afterward  the 
Admiral  Duperre,  minister  of  marine. 

La  Clos  had  three  children,  two  boys  and  a  girl. 
The  three  are  now  dead  without  issue.  The  eldest 
died  at  twenty-five,  colonel  of  artillery  ;  the  younger 
dird  last  year,  in  Paris,  eligible,  as  tlie  Almanac  of 
7\i^irnty-five  Thousand  Addresses  testifies.  He  suf- 
fered much  from  attacks,  almost  always  imjust,  made 
upon  tlie  memory  of  his  father.  These  attacks  upon 
the  father  reached  the  son.     M.  Charles  de  la  Clos 


244  TllK    CIIKVALIKll    DE    LA    CL08. 

collected  evcrvthin2:  wliieh  cduUI  aid  in  the  full  ap- 
preciation of  his  father. 

The  auth(ir  of  the  Liaisons  Dangereiiscs  died  at 
Tarento,  general  of  artillery,  poorer  than  Malfilatre 
and  Gilbert.  France  was  not  then  rich,  at  least  in 
ready  money.  He  died  prondof  the  triuinphsof  his 
countrv,  deeply  saddened  by  the  destitution  which 
threatened  his  wife  and  his  three  children.  Fortune, 
doubtless,  took  care  of  them.  The  last  La  Clos  died 
with  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  livres. 

I  hope,  some  day,  to  communicate  to  the  public 
some  very  curious  letters  written  by  La  Clos  to  his 
wife,  especially  the  farewell  letters  of  La  Clos  the 
Revolutionist,  dated  from  prison,  the  9th  Thermidor, 
(he  was  to  die  on  the  10th,)  and  the  farewell  letters 
of  La  Clos  the  Soldier,  dated  frem  Tarento. 

A.  H. 


GHETEY. 


In  July,  1726,  an  old  German  cure,  a  rosy  canon  of 
Notre -Dame  de  Presburg,  who  was  passing  through 
Blegnez,  on  a  journey  to  Liege,  suddenly  paused  on 
his  route  in  that  village,  at  the  recollection  that  a 
well-beloved  niece  lived  there,  surrounded  by  the 
poetic  associations  of  country -life.  It  was  after  ves- 
pers on  a  Sunday,  and  the  old  cure,  who  had  heard 
at  a  distance  the  solemn  sound  of  the  bells,  soon 
caught  the  notes  of  the  violin. — "That  is  he,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  that  rogue  of  a  fellow  is  solacing  himself, 
and  his  wife  as  well,  for  tlie  troubles  of  life,  by  playing 
on  the  violin." — As  he  said  these  words,  he  resumed 
his  course,  in  the  direction  of  the  lively  sound  of 
tlie  violin.  Meeting  a  peasant,  he  asked  him,  "  My 
friend,  does  not  Jean  Noe  Gretry  live  there  on  the 
otlier  side  of  the  church,  at  the  end  of  the  hedge?" — 
"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  the  peasant,  whose 
legs  showed  a  slight  disposition  to  keep  time  to  the 
tune ;  "  the  best  inn  in  the  conntry.  In  faith,  you 
may  driidc  there,  if  it  please  you,  beer  and  brandy  to 
yniir  liking,  and,  if  your  heart  is  so  inclined,  he  will 
give  you  a  dance  with  some  pretty  girls,  who  are 
brisk  ones  too.  if  that  is  to  your  taste." 

21* 


24G  GRETltY. 

Tlie  cure  kept  on  his  way. — "Tlic  devil!"  said  lie, 
"  my  iiei)liew  is  a  wicked  fellow !  he  intoxicates  his 
noiirhbors  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  It  is  a  misdirected 
cliai'ity  ;  but,  after  all,  giving;  these  poor  creatures  a 
little  diversion  is  a  sin  which  the  Deity  himself 
absolves  with  a  smile ;  so  let  us  see  what  is  going  on." 
— As  he  i>assed  the  last  column  of  the  chin-ch,  an 
unexpected  sight,  as  by  magic,  met  his  eyes.  To 
liave  some  idea  of  the  surprise  of  the  old  cure  of 
the  austere  cathedral  of  Presburg,  fancy  to  yourself  a 
festival  by  Teniers  in  a  landscape  by  Berghem. 
Call  to  mind  a  Flemish  Gayety^  with  its  rural  deco- 
rations, its  lively  colors,  its  simple  joys,  its  boisterous 
mirth,  its  picturesque  carelessness!  On  the  first 
glance,  the  cure  saw  through  the  openings  of  the  old 
elm-trees,  and  at  the  end  of  a  most  verdant  la\VTi  his 
nephew,  Noe  Gretiy,  who,  perched  on  the  top  of  a 
barrel,  was  playing  in  a  style  to  turn  the  heads  of 
the  most  obstinate  of  Flemings.  All  the  blooming 
youth  of  the  country  were  dancing  noisily  around 
him  ;  there  were  even,  here  and  there,  some  women 
beyond  the  prime  of  life,  and  even  superannuated 
lovers,  who  forgot  their  age  in  grotesque  pirouetting. 
Nothing  could  be  more  animated,  more  gay,  or 
more  delicious,  than  this  spectacle;  but  this  was  not 
the  whole  of  the  picture.  Before  the  cottage  of 
tlie  tiddler,  botii  jjicturesque  and  rustic  (a  cottage 
Avhich  all  the  week  was  the  dwelling  of  a  small 
farmer,  and  became  on  the  Sunday  a  tavern  for 
carousing),  half  a  dozen  tables  were  seen  scattered 
about,  to  which  the  dancei-s  resorted  in  tums,  to  toss 
off  a  pint  of  beer,  or  discuss  a  slice  of  ham.  In  the 
inside  of  the  cottage,  the  graver  tipplers  of  tlie  village 


A    FLEMISH   PICTURE. 


247 


were  playing  at  cards  and  talking  of  by-gone  days ; 
in  the  distance,  the  herdsman  of  Blegnez,  who  was 
desirous  of  taking  his  part  in  the  festival,  played  on 
the  bag-pipes,  as  he  drove  back  to  the  stables  the 
dun  cows  and  bellowing  bulls ;  the  cuckoo  threw  in, 
now  and  then,  his  mocking  song ;  the  bullfinch  his 
melancholy  strain.  The  sky  was  blue  enough  for  a 
Flemish  sky  ;  the  declining  sun  seemed  to  smile  on 
all  these  rustic  joys ;  the  plain  gave  to  the  passing 
wind  the  perfume  of  its  floweiy  meads ;  nothing  was 
wanting  to  the  picture.  I  could  describe  to  you  with 
l)leasure  the  follies  of  the  dance  and  the  Olympian 
roars  of  the  drinkers  ;  but  your  imagination  is  i-icher 
than  my  pen.  I  return  to  my  old  cure.  I  had  for- 
gotten the  swing,  which  gayly  decorated  with  ribands 
and  flowers,  was  suspended  between  a  barn  and  the 
trunk  of  an  old  oak,  over  a  rich  clover-field,  which  had 
just  been  reaped.  As  the  canon  passed,  a  pretty 
girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  was  allowing  herself  to  be 
swung  by  a  young  lad  in  his  Sunday  finery,  mIio  ap- 
peared to  be  looking  at  her  with  all  his  eyes.  M.  le 
cure  passed  quickly  along,  loAvering  his  eyes,  but,  cure 
though  he  was,  he  lowered  them  a  little  too  late. — 
"Good  heavens !  good  heavens !"  he  muttered  between 
his  teeth.  lie  kept  on  all  the  while,  recommending 
liimself  to  Providence.  Tri]tj)ing  by  the  side  of  the 
barn  on  tij)toe,  he  arrived  during  a  country-dance, 
almost  unobserved,  at  the  door  of  his  well-beloved 
niece.  It  was  a  good  ten  years  since  Mademoiselle 
nifudonne  Canij»inad(»  had  sutiered  lierself,  very 
willingly,  to  be  carried  otf  by  Noc  Grcti-y,  whose 
adventurous  fortunes  she  had  fullowed  witli  ])i<»u8 
resignation.      1'hey  were    mai-rietl    in    llie    presence 


248  GRKTRY. 

of  God,  and  before  the  notary;  but  the  Cainpinado 
family,  notwitlistanding  tlie  marriage  liad  hardly  par- 
doned the  young  couple.  The  old  cure,  who  M'ished  to 
forgive  them  before  he  die<l,  had  stoj)ped  with  this 
design  at  the  village  of  Blegnez.  All  that  he  had  just 
before  seen,  however,  liad  a  little  weakened  his  de- 
sire of  granting  absolution.  As  he  was  crossing  the 
sill  of  the  cottage,  his  niece,  whom  he  had  formerly 
looked  upon  as  the  most  timid  and  most  devout  of 
the  girls  of  liis  chapter,  suddenly  bounced  out  in  a 
very  pretty,  but  very  loose  deshabille,  with  a  i^int  of 
beer  in  each  hand,  and  a  snatch  of  a  song  on  her 
lips.  At  the  sight  of  her  old  uncle,  she  dropped 
the  pots  of  beer  from  her  hands,  but  the  last 
words  of  the  song  lingered  on  her  lips.  "  Oh,  my 
uncle !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Noe  !  Noe  !  come  and 
embrace  our  uncle."  And  with  these  words  she 
threw  herself,  completely  overcome,  into  the  ariris  of 
the  old  cure.  The  fiddler,  in  spite  of  his  taste  for 
music  and  the  dance,  abandoned  on  the  instant  liis 
dancei's  and  his  violin.  "  Oh,  my  dear  child,"  said 
the  cure,  "  what  a  hell  you  live  in  !" — "  In  faith," 
said  Noe,  "  if  hell  was  as  merry  a  place  as  this,  you 
might  spare  your  Latin,  uncle.  But  you  will  take  a 
little  pint  of  beer,  will  you  not?  What  have  I  said, 
beer  ?  I  forgot  that  I  am  addressing  a  cure.  Wife, 
go  do^vTi  as  quick  as  you  can  to  the  end  of  the  cel- 
lar: there  are  some  bottles  left  there  for  special  occa- 
sions ;  and  is  not  this  such  an  occasion  ?" 

The  uncle  was,  doubtless,  about  to  make  his  prot- 
est, when  a  dozen  dancers,  not  knowing  what  better 
to  do  with  themselves,  and  induced  besides  by  cuh- 
osity,  boisterously  advanced  to  the  door  of  the  cot- 


NOAII    AND   HIS    WESfE.  £'49 

tage.  "  Heavens  !"  exclaimed  the  cure,  "  I  have 
not  yet  readied  the  end.  So,  so,  nephew,  1 
hope  that  I  shall  not  presently  be  forced  to  dance 
with  you." — "  Come,  come,  uncle,  Heaven  would 
not  frown  on  such  an  act ;  but  your  legs  need  not  be 
uneasy  on  that  score.  To  prove  my  good  intentions 
to  you,  I  will  yield  you  my  place,  where  you  may 
preach  a  sermon  to  our  young  girls  at  your  ease,  it 
will  be  like  another  song,  but  I  will  not  guaranty 
a  great  number  of  converts.  Meanwhile,  let  us  drink 
a  cu]>  and  salute  this  fine  sunset." 

Tiie  wife  of  tlie  fiddler,  with  charming  grace,  had 
just  presented  a  mould-incrusted  bottle,  and  glasses. 
Koe  made  the  cork  fly  like  a  man  who  understood  the 
business,  poured  out  with  great  freedom,  and,  willing 
or  not,  the  old  cur6  must  needs  drink  two  glasses  in 
succession  of  choice  white  wine,  full  of  fire,  and 
M-(irthy  of  a  German  canon.  "  Uncle,"  continued 
Xoe,  '•  had  not  my  godfather  good  reasons  for  bap- 
tizing me  by  the  name  of  Noah  ?  I  have  not  planted 
the  vine  myself,  but  I  have  cultivated  it.  Come,  it 
is  not  enough  to  empty  one's  glass  to-day,  we  must 
liave  a  tune  on  the  violin.  But  where  is  Jean  ?"  — 
•'  "Wait,"  said  the  mother,  with  an  afiectionate  smile, 
"there  he  comes  with  some  young;  birds." 

Jean  was  a  pretty  child  (»f  seven  and  a  half  years, 
wlio  had  all  the  grace  and  roguislmess  of  his  age.  He 
smiled  5is  he  caressed  three  young  thrushes,  without 
Appearing  to  care  about  monsieur  the  cure.  "  Come," 
said  Xne  to  him,  "embrace  your  uncle;  but  first  of 
all  let  those  birds  go.  Have  I  not  sjxtken  to  you 
oftci.  enough  of  tlie  wickedness  of  l)ird-catching?" 
And   as   the   child  resisted,  he  continued:  "  It' yon 


C^O  GRETRY. 

will   mind  mc,  T  will  let  you  off  of  your  _o:rarnniar 
lesson.''     The  chikl  still  resisted.     "Well,  let  ns  see, 
YOU  shall  come  Avith  me  and  play  a  tnne  on  the 
violin." 

This  time  the  child  ^vas  persuaded.     He  glanced 
sadly  at  the  birds,  and  suddenly  opened  his  hand, 
IVom  which  two  Youns;  thrushes  flew  to  an  old  elm: 
the  third  lighted  with  great  difficulty  on  the  tliatch. 
"INfay  Gud   guide   them,"  said  Noe,  resuming  his 
violin.     The  child  had  lost  no  time.     He  sprang  like 
a  cat  up  the  staircase  to  his  little  room,  took  down 
from  its  hook  an  old  violin,  wdiich  his  father  had 
come  across  in  the  course  of  his  travels  ;  and,  as  he 
descended,  w^as  already  tuning  it.     The   old   cure 
stopped  him  as  he  passed.     "  How,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  a  violin  in  the  hands  of  a  child  of  seven  ?     Ah,  my 
son,  what  a  fatal  destiny  !     At  your  age,  you  shonld 
have  only  the  censer  in  your  hands.     You  should 
sing  only  the  pi'aises  of  tlie  Lord.     Are  you  not  one 
of  the  choristers?"  continued  the  uncle, playing  with 
Jean's  curly  locks.  "  Ah  well,  yes,"  said  Jean,  making 
a  charming  face,  "  chorister !  that  is  as  good  as  any- 
thing else." —  "He  is  a  wild  boy,"  said  the  mother, 
"we  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  him.     He  will 
hear  of  nothing  but  the  violin."  — "  ]>ut  that  is  no 
callbig.   Tell  me,  my  deai-,"  resumed  the  cure,  "  will 
you  follow  me  to  Presbm-g  ?    I  will  give  you  a  bene- 
fice  there."  —  "What   a   pretty  little  canon!"   ex- 
claimed the  mother.     "  Me  a  canon!"  exclaimed  the 
child,  running  off. 

The  little  devil  incarnate  leaped  on  the  cask  where 
his  ftither  was  waiting  f<»r  him;  and  there,  his  locks 
flying  in  the  wind,  and  his  cmintenance  lighted   np, 


FIRST   PRIZE    AT   LIEGE.  251 

he  set  to  work  to  scrape  in  the  best  style,  an  uul 
coiintrj-dance.  The  good  canon  couki  not  retrain 
from  smiling.  He  took  his  niece's  hand,  and  with 
an  air  half-serious,  half-comic,  said  to  her :  "  Ah, 
my  niece,  my  poor  Jeanne !  what  a  child  yon  have 
there !  You  are  in  a  line  road,  with  a  fiddler  on  one 
side  and  a  fiddler  on  the  other."  —  "Come,  come, 
uncle,  all  roads  lead  to  Rome ;  and  one  can  reach 
there  as  well  by  a  good  stroke  of  the  bow  as  by  a 
fine  sermon.  Is  it  a  great  evil,  forsooth,  to  gladden 
once  a  week  the  hearts  of  all  these  good  peasants  for 
a  little  while  ?  But  do  not  let  us  talk  any  more  about 
it,  let  us  think  only  of  the  joy  of  our  meeting." 

The  old  cure  listened  to  reason  without  further  op- 
position ;  he  turned  somewhat  unconsciously  toward  the 
dance.  The  festival  went  on  notwithstanding  the  can- 
on's presence.  The  supper  was  worthy  of  the  festival. 
He  left  the  next  day  very  well  pleased  with  the  hos- 
pitality of  his  nephew.  lie  left  with  a  benediction 
on  the  modest  cottage  which  sheltered  the  joyous 
family.  Jean  escorted  him  to  the  next  village,  all 
the  while  gathering  flowers,  and  frightening  away 
the  sparrows.  "  Farewell,"  said  the  uncle,  as  he 
dropped  a  tear,  "may  Saint  Cecilia  protect  and 
God  guide  you !  Ah,  that  Gretry  family,"  he  re- 
sumed a  little  farther  on,  "are  predestined  to  be 
fiddlci*s." 

Four  years  afterward,  the  young  rogue,  who  was 
not  twelve  years  old,  carried  oflt'  the  first  prize  for 
the  violin,  at  Liege.  lie  was  a  true  prodigy  in  those 
days,  in  which  j^rodigies  were  not  common.  As 
there  wei'c  no  newspa])ei'a,  this  triumph  did  not  go 
beyond  the  province  of  Liege.    Jean  Gretry  "liiainef^ 


252  GKKTRT. 

only  that  hiilf-cclebrity  wliich  makes  ardent  luinds 
^vlvt^•lled  ;  hnt  it  was  sufficient  to  cai>tivatc  the 
lieart  of  a  young  lady  of  Liege  of  high  birth,  who 
was  liis  noblest  and  truest  glory.  He  nuii'ried  her 
in  the  happiest  days  of  liis  youth,  and  hence  we 
have  Andre  Gretry,  whose  history  I  am  about  to 
relate. 

It  was  not  without  a  reason  that  I  commenced  with 
this  little  Flemish  picture.  I  was  desirous  of  seek- 
ing Gretrv's  true  cradle:  there  are  certainly  cnrious 
researches  to  be  made  in  the  genealogies  of  poets 
and  musicians.  Who  knows  if  four  generations  were 
not  necessary  to  perfect  Mozart  or  Moliere  for  the 
world?  Who  knows  but  tliat  poetry,  which  is  also 
music,  is  a  treasure  slowly  amassed  in  families,  a 
sacred  lieritage  of  which  God  alone  appoints  the 
lieir?  Every  poet  arrays  himself  somewhat  in  the 
old  clotlies  of  his  grandfather.  But  it  is  time  to 
come  to  Andre  Gretry. 

He  was  born  at  Liege  the  11th  of  February,  174L 
He  entered  on  life,  or  rather  on  music,  very  young. 
He  was  scarcely  four  years  old  when  he  was  already 
sensible  to  musical  rhythm.  One  day,  while  he  was 
alone  in  the  chimney  corner,  one  of  those  boiling 
pots,  about  which  the  German  poets  have  sung  so 
well,  fixed  his  dawning  thoughts  by  its  monotonous 
song.  At  the  same  moment  the  cricket  chirped  be- 
tween two  broken  hearth-bricks,  the  cat  slumbering 
on  tlie  cinders,  made  audible  her  measured  pui-r. 
This  domestic  symphony  at  first  amused  the  child. 
He  looked  around  him  to  assure  himself  that  he  was 
really  alone.  He  surveyed  with  an  animated  eye 
tlie  pewter  plates  on  the  dresser,  the  yellow  curtains 


ANDRE    GKETRT    A    CHORISTER.  253 

of  the  alcove  ;  two  old  violins,  released  from  service, 
liung  as  glorious  trophies  over  the  chimney-piece; 
find  ins:  himself  alone  with  the  music,  he  beo:an  to 
dance  with  all  his  might.  After  the  country-dauce, 
lie  was  desirous  of  investigating  thoroughly  the  secret 
of  the  music,  and  so  upset  the  water  of  the  kettle  in- 
to the  intensely-hot  coal  fire.  The  explosion  was  so 
violent  that  the  poor  dancer  fell  to  the  gromid  suffo- 
cated and  scalded  over  almost  his  entire  Ixxly.  He 
was  taken,  half-dead,  to  his  maternal  grandmother's, 
a  coimtry-house  in  the  neighborhood  of  Liege,  where 
he  passed  two  delightful  years.  He  was  there  with- 
out a  master  and  without  cares,  entirely  at  liberty, 
ransacking  the  country  morning  and  night,  loved  by 
all  for  liis  gracefulness  and  pretty  face,  and  (must  it 
be  believed?)  loving  already,  he  does  not  say  whom, 
but  many  girls,  large  and  small,  at  once  —  loving 
already  too  much  (it  is  himself  here  who  speaks)  to 
intrust  it  to  any  of  them  ! 

Jean  Gretry,  who  had  so  derided  the  chorister- 
boys,  who  was  so  good  a  philosopher  at  seven,  at  a 
later  date  had  all  the  weakness  of  the  philosophers. 
Tlius,  he  made  his  son,  willing  or  unwilling,  a  choris- 
tei'-boy  at  the  collegiate  church  of  which  he  was  first 
violin.  Chorister-boy !  Gretry  never  could  recall  that 
without  a  shudder!  This  w^as  not  all:  poor  Andre 
was  soon  aband<ined  to  the  most  barbarous  mnsic- 
master  that  ever  existed.  In  his  Memoirs^  Gretry 
recounts  with  bitterness  all  the  toi'turcs  he  nnide  him 
undergo  —  tragi-comic  tortures;  lnit  listen  to  him: 
"  He  sometimes  ]>lace(l  us  on  oui-  knees  on  a  round 
log,  80  that  <in  the  slightest  motion  wc;  tumbled 
uvcr      1  have  seen  him  nuifllr  the  head  of  a  child  of 

22 


254:  GRETUr. 

six  years  in  an  cnonnons  old  peruke,  and  fat^tcn  liins 
np  in  that  coiulitiou  an'ain.st  tlic  wall,  sonic  feet  from 
the  ground,  and  thei-e  force  him  h\  blows  of  a  nxl  to 
sing  the  music  which  he  held  in  one  hand,  aiul  beat 
time  with  the  other.  Tlie  })oor  child,  although  he 
iiad  a  very  pretty  face,  resembled  a  l)at  nailed  to  the 
wall,  and  rent  the  air  with  his  cries."  Andre  Gretry 
passed  from  four  to  five  years  in  this  horrible  inquisi- 
tion. Thanks  to  his  master,  he  was  but  an  indifferent 
scholar  in  music;  but  another  master,  the  master  of 
all  the  great  artists,  chance,  came  to  his  aid.  A 
company  of  Italian  singers  i)assing  through  Liege, 
performed  there  tlie  operas  of  Pergolesi.  Gretry  at- 
tended all  the  performances,  and  became  passionately 
fond  of  Italian  music.  Ilis  father  was  so  charmed  with 
his  progress,  that  he  wanted  him  to  sing,  at  all  hazards, 
some  sacred  nmsic  at  the  church  on  the  following  Sun- 
day. It  was  an  Italian  air  on  these  words  of  the  Virgin  : 
"iVbn  semper Hvper jpratd  ca-'itaflorescitr'osa.''''  Every- 
body was  astonished,  and  cried,  "What  a  prodigy! 
How  comes  he  to  sing  so  ?  It  is  worthy  of  the  opera !" 
His  old  master  himself  could  not  avoid  smiling.  He 
sang  in  this  way  every  Sunday  for  many  years.  He, 
liowever,  had  a  susceptible  heart,  and  became  des- 
perately enamored  of  all  the  Flemish  blondes  who 
came  h)  hear  him;  he  loved  those  most  whom  he 
did  not  see;  it  was  the  hope  rather  than  the  memory 
of  love  —  re  very  rather  than  passion.  He  aliandoned 
the  song  and  the  church  for  composition  and  solitude, 
I  will  not  recount  all  the  little  joys  and  all  the  little  mis- 
adventures of  our  musician.  T  will  not  tell  you  how 
he  stu<lled,  like  a  true  poet,  the  sound  of  the  wind, 
the  rain,  the  storm,  and  the  f  )untain  ;  the  song  of  the 


SETS    OUT    FOE    ITALY  255 

blnl^i,  and  the  beating  of  the  heart  of  a  young  German 
o-irl  of  his  neighborhood,  who  was  induced  bv  the 
love  of  music  even  to  love  the  musician.     It  will  not 
do  to  linger  too  long  over  the  infant  efforts  of  love 
and  of  genius.     His  first  serious  work  (we  are  no 
longer  speaking  of  love)  was  a  mass  in  music.     This 
was  his  triumph   at  Liege ;    like  his  father  before 
him,  he  became  the  prodigy  of  the  district.     Fore- 
seeing that  he  would  get  no  farther  if  he  remained  at 
Liege,  he  was  desirous  of  setting  out  for  Eome  —  for 
tliat  sun  of  fire  before  which  the  flowers  of  his  genius 
were  to  expand.    One  Palm-Sunday,  on  coming  out, 
after  mass,  the  people  of  Liege  all  exclaimed,  with 
affectionate  regret,  "  We  have  heard  the  farewell  of 
young  Gretry."     He  went  early  in  April,  went  for  a 
long  time ;   he  went,  poor  bird  of  passage,  to  exile 
himself  far  from  his  country,  far  from  his   family! 
IJut  is  an  artist  ever  in  exile?    The  spring  had  come, 
the  good  mother  wept  as  she  made  ready  the  little 
baf''£ra«'e  of  her  son.     The  careless  traveller  was  the 
only  one  who  diffused  any  gayety  about  the  sweet 
and  calm  Flemish  interior.     The  father  played  the 
saddest  of  airs  on  his  faithful  violin  ;  the  dog  himself 
was  restless.      Li  the  neighborhood  there  was  still 
gi-eater  sadness.     The  pretty  German  girl,  almost  al- 
ways seated  at  lier  window,  shed  a  silent  tear,  which 
came  from  the  heart!     She  no  longer  sang,  she  no 
longer  laughed  ;    in  vain  did  the  s])ring  again  bloom 
l)en('ath   her  window;    the  springtime  of  her  heart 
was  blighted  ! 

Thus,  at  the  end  of  March,  17r.7,  did  Andie  (in'Iry 
pet  out  on  fo(»t,  with  knapsack  on  his  back,  and  staif 
in  han<l ;  with  his  eighteen  years  all  frcs'li.  pure,  uRm 


Cot)  GRKTUV. 


crowned  witl.  hopes  ;  witli  his  father's  hlessiiirjs  and 
liis  mother's  tears!  lie  had  some  travelling  com- 
panions, two  pistols  \vhifh  had  been  given  to  hin\ 
with  the  remark,  "i?o^7/vV/o,  arttliouhravcV  an  old 
smnggler,  and  two  students,  one  of  whom  was  an 
al,)he  ;  the  hitter  did  not  go  very  far.  The  smnggler 
was  named  Tvemacle ;  he  was  an  old  miser,  who 
made  regnlarlj  every  year  two  jonraeys  from  Liege 
to  Eome,  in  company  with  yonng  students ;  he  car- 
ried into  Italy  the  finest  laces  of  Flanders ;  he  brought 
back  from  Rome  reliques  and  old  slippers  of  the 
P(»]X',  which  caused  great  joy  in  all  the  convents  of 
the  Low  Countries.  Old  Hemacle  had  a  stout  Champ- 
enois  youth  as  an  honorary  associate,  who  made  it  his 
business  to  ferret  out  and  beat  the  officers  of  the  cus- 
toms. This  journey,  or  rather  pilgrimage  of  Gretry's 
is  almost  like  a  chapter  of  Gil  Bias.  The  caravan 
was  one  of  the  most  grotesque  :  a  dreamy  musician, 
who  was  always  singing  church-music ;  a  poor,  sor- 
rowful al)be,  who  looked  back  every  minute  toward  the 
steejile  of  his  village ;  a  young  medical  student  of  the 
liveliest  kind,  who  amused  himself  with  all  the  men, 
and  especially  with  all  the  women,  whom  he  met  on 
the  road  ;  a  great  drunken  Chamjjenois,  sorely  smitten 
vritli  the  taveiTi-girls  after  he  had  taken  a  pint;  and 
finally  a  miserly  old  smuggler,  grave  and  silent  as  a 
Fleming,  and  always  in  hostilities  with  the  officers. 
The  first  day,  the  rear-guard,  that  is  to  say  the  abl)6 
arrised  at  the  sleeping-place  a  long  time  after  the 
others;  and  the  student  predicted  that  lie  would  not 
measure  off  twenty-five  leagues  with  his  delicate  feet. 
At  the  termination  of  the  twenty-five  leagues,  the 
f  ooi-  i^bbe  lunied  his  back  to  the  caravan,  to  reti-ace 


INN    WELCOME.  257 

his  course  to  Lieo-e.  Tlie  caravan  was  none  the  less 
gay  for  his  absence.  Old  Eeraacle  was  soon  en- 
chanted with  his  3'oung  companions,  on  account  of 
two  little  adventures.  One  day,  on  entering  an  iini 
to  dine,  a  colossal  German  woman,  the  landlady  of 
the  premises,  jumped  on  Gretry's  neck,  gave  him  a 
thousand  caresses,  and  feasted  him  like  a  prince. 
N'ever  had  Ilcmacle  dined  so  well.  At  dessert,  she 
poured  out  liquem-s  for  every  one,  all  the  wliile  ad- 
dressing a  thousand  tender  remarks  to  Gretry,  who 
did  not  understand  German. — '"It  is  very  fortunate 
that  it  is  not  necessary  to  understand  them,"  said  he. 
Remade  offered  to  settle  the  bill ;  she  refused  the 
money;  he  did  not  give  her  another  opportunity  to 
refuse  it.  Gretry  at  last  understood  that  this  good 
hostess  had  a  son  of  similar  age  and  appearance, 
studying  at  Treves;  she  had  caressed  Gretry  in 
honor  of  her  son,  like  a  good  mother  who  must  open 
her  heart  at  every  remembrance.  Now  for  the  other 
adventure :  Some  days  after,  at  another  inn,  our 
travellei-s  took  their  seats  at  the  table  for  supper;  the 
servant-girls  are  all  in  a  flutter;  all  the  kitclien 
furnaces  are  blazing;  chickens  are  decapitated  ;  hams 
are  taken  down  from  the  liooks ;  the  oldest  bottles  in 
the  cellar  are  disinterred.  Gretry  and  tlie  smugglers 
know  not  what  to  think ;  at  last  tlie  student  returns, 
with  a  lancet  in  his  hand. — "What  have  you  been 
about,  scapegrace?" — "I  have  been  bleeding  the  liost 
and  hostess,  after  M'hich  I  ]uit  them  to  sleep." — 
"Tinpnidcjit  fellow!"— "Bah!"  said  he,  with  a  burst 
oflangliter;  "  tliey  are  as  old  as  Time  himself!" 

Other  adventures  also  occurred,  to  coiuiiicc  Tiom- 
acle  that  his  fellow  travel lei-s  were  \v<»rtiiv  <.J'  him. 

22* 


258  GKKTKY. 

Ever  in  dread  of  the  before-mentioned  officers,  the 
Ad  sinnggler  forced  them  to  make  a  detour  of  some 
leagues,  to  see,  as  he  said  with  a  disinterested  air, 
a  superb  monaster}',  where  alms  were  bestowed  once 
a  week  on  all  the  ])oor  of  the  country.  On  entering 
the  great  hall,  in  the  midst  of  a  noisy  crowd,  Gretry 
saw  a  fat  nu»nk,  mounted  on  a  platform,  who  was 
angrily  superintending  this  Christian  charity.  He 
hxiked  as  if  he  would  like  rather  to  exterminate 
his  fellow-creatures  than  aid  them  to  live ;  he  was 
just  bullying  a  poor  French  vagabond  who  im- 
plored his  aid.  When  he  suddenly  saw  the  noble 
face  of  Gretrv,  he  approached  the  young  musician. 
— "It  is  curiosity  which  brings  you  here,"  he  re- 
marked with  vexation, — "  It  is  true,"  said  Gretry, 
buwiug;  "  the  beauty  of  your  monastery,  the  sul)limity 
of  the  scenery,  and  the  desire  of  contemplating  the 
asylum  where  the  unfortunate  ti-aveller  is  received 
with  so  much  humanity,  have  drawn  us  from  our 
route.  In  beholding  you,  I  ha\e  seen  the  angel 
of  mercy.  All  the  victims  of  sorrow  should  bless 
your  edifying  gentleness.  Tell  me,  father,  do  you 
make  as  many  ha])py  every  day  as  I  have  just 
witnessed  ?" 

The  monk,  irritated  by  this  bantering,  begged 
Gretry  to  return  whence  he  came. — "  Father,"  re- 
toi-ted  Gretry,  "have  the  evangelists  taught  you  this 
mode  of  bestowini'  alms,  givini'  with  one  hand  and 
strikiuiT  with  the  other?" — A  low  murmur  was  heard 
tlirouirli  the  hall ;  the  monk  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  complained  of  the  tooth-ache;  the  cunning 
student  lost  no  time,  but  running  up  to  him  with 
an  air  of  touching  compassion,   "  I  am  a  surgeon," 


THE  monk's  tooth.  259 

he  said,  as  he  forced  him  down  on  the  bench.  The 
monk  tried  to  push  him  off,  but  he  held  on  well. — 
"It  is  Heaven  which  lias  directed  me  to  you,  father." 
■ — "\Villin2:  or  not,  the  monk  had  to  open  his  mouth. 
— "  Courage,  father,  the  great  saints  were  all  martyi's  I 
the  Savior  was  crucified ;  and  you  may  at  least  let 
me  pull  out  a  tooth." — The  monk  struggled  :  "  Never, 
never!"  he  exclaimed.  The  student  turned  with 
gi-eat  coolness  toward  the  bystanders,  who  were 
all  lauo-hirii;  in  their  sleeves. — "  Mv  friends" — (he 
addressed  crippled  travellei-s,  mountain  brigands, 
and  poor  people  of  every  class) — "my  friends,  for 
the  love  of  God,  who  suffered,  come  and  hold  this 
good  father;  I  do  not  want  liim  to  suffer  any 
longer !" 

The  beggars  understood  the  joke;  four  of  them 
sejmrated  from  the  group,  and  came  to  the  surgeon's 
aid.  The  monk  struggled  furiously,  but  it  w^as  no 
use  to  kick  and  scream  ;  he  had  to  submit.  Gretry 
was  not  the  last  to  come  to  his  friend's  aid ;  the 
malicious  student  seized  the  first  tooth  he  got  hold 
of,  and  wrenched  the  head  of  the  monk  by  a  turn  of  his 
elbow,  to  the  great  joy  of  the  beggars,  who  saw  them- 
fielves  revenged  in  a  most  opportune  manner. — 
"Well,  fatlier,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  asked 
Gretry,  after  the  operation  ;  "  I  am  sure  you  do  not 
now  suffer  at  all!" — The  monk  shook  with  rage;  tlie 
other  monks  attracted  by  his  cries,  soon  arrived,  but 
it  was  too  late. 

I  pass  over  the  love  of  Greti-y  for  tlie  fair  Tyrolese 
in  silence.  lie  at  last  arrived  in  Italy. — "No  more 
snows,  no  more  mountains  ;  but  an  cnamelliMl  im-a']. 
on  which  young  girls  arc  singing!     It  was  tlic  first 


Oj? 


(30  G  RETRY. 

lesson  in  music  wliieli  I  received  in  Italy.  The  song 
of  these  lair  Mihinesc  has  left  an  eternal  echo  in  my 
soul.'' — lie  made  his  entrance  into  Home  on  a  tine 
Sunday  in  June,  in  the  midst  of  a  dozen  pleasure- 
carriages,  in  which  blooming  Iloman  girls  were 
loviuii-lv  singing  and  smiling.  He  was  enchanted, 
lie  wandered  until  evening  among  palaces  and 
churches,  the  renown  of  which  had  long  filled  his 
imagination ;  but,  nevertheless,  in  the  evening,  after 
havinir  seen  these  edifices,  which  are  the  wonders  of 
art;  the  fair  Il(jman  women,  who  are  the  wondei's  of 
nature ;  and  the  exquisite  sky,  so  pure  and  blue, 
wliich  seems  one  of  the  gates  of  Paradise,  Gretry  re- 
called with  a  melancholy  charm,  the  cloudy  sky  of 
his  dear  country,  the  blonde  Flemish  girls  of  Liege, 
the  sweet  and  calm  household  of  his  father,  and  also 
that  pretty  neighbor,  who  had  with  a  tear  bade  him  so 
tender  an  adieu !  The  most  beantifid  country  in  the 
world  to  the  traveller  is  always  the  country  in  which 
his  heart  has  blossomed.  But  patience!  Gretry's 
heart  is  hardly  in  its  spring-time ! 

Gretry  made  his  debut  at  Rome  in  sacred  music. 
He  drew  his  inspiration  from  the  masters  of  sacred 
art;  from  the  amiable  and  graceful  Casali,  the  grave 
Orisicchio,  the  noble  and  austere  Lnstrini.  It  was  in 
the  second  year  of  the  reign  of  Clement  XIII.  Sacred 
music  had  assumed  profane  airs  under  the  reign  of 
Benedict  XIV.;  but  the  new  pope,  full  of  zeal  for  his 
church,  had  called  nnisic  to  order ;  music  had  again 
become  serious ;  resumed  her  sad  and  pious,  slow 
and  vague  solemnity  :  it  was  truly  the  music  which 
itscends  direct  to  heaven  on  the  wings  of  archangels, 
alter  having  sanctified  the  hearts  of  sinners.    Gretrv 


HIS    COLLEGK    CHUM.  261 

like  the  divine  Pergolesi,  was  initiated  into  the  sen- 
timent and  the  melody  of  this  music.  He  commenced 
a  De  Profundis^  which  was  to  vie  in  grandeur  and 
solemnity  with  the  Stahat  ^  but  as  this  De  Profundis 
was  to  be  sung  only  at  his  own  funeral,  he  was  in  no 
great  hurry  to  finish  it,  and  it  never  was  finished. 

Tliere  was  a  college  in  existence  at  Rome  for  the 
students,  painters,  and  musicians  of  Liege.  Gretry 
had,  as  a  room-mate  in  this  college,  the  scapegrace 
student,  whom  he  had  as  his  travelling  companion. 
He  was  a  very  agreeable  neighbor ;  for  example, 
when  Gretry,  after  having  ransacked  the  Roman 
Campagna  in  search  of  antique  ruins,  fell  sick,  the 
surgeon,  who  made  their  room  a  complete  cemetery, 
remarked,  in  a  tender-  tone,  as  he  felt  his  pulse  : 
"Ah,  my  poor  friend,  I  have  lost  a  tilia^  and  I  hope 
you  will  have  the  kindness  in  case  you  die  to  allow 
me."  .  .  .  Gretry  contrived  not  to  fulfil  this  request. 
lie  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  organist  who  taught 
liim  to  })lay  on  the  harpsichord.  He  was  a  very 
poor  master,  but  he  had  a  pretty  wife,  and  all  the 
lessons  were  not  lost.  Gretry  made  such  great  prog- 
ress that  the  poor  man  cried  out  one  day,  in  a  trans- 
port, liis  eyes  filled  with  tears  :  "  0  Dio  !  O  Dlo 
santissimo  !  questo  e  un  prodifjgio  da  vero  .^" 

Sometime  after  Gretry  was  taken  by  an  abbe  of 
liis  acquaintance  to  the  house  of  Piccini,  wlio  as- 
sumed the  ail's  of  a  great  genius  toward  our  young 
Fleming.  He  did  not  say  a  word  to  him,  but  con- 
tinu(;<l  to  compose  an  oratorio,  as  if  he  luid  been  all 
ahtne.  After  an  hour's  audience  in  this  style,  Gi-etry 
left,  not  as  he  came,  for  he  had  come  radiant  with 
hope.     He  did  not  lose  courage,  he  luid  still  greater 


262  GRETRY. 

ardor,  "but  he  fell  sick  a<jjuin.  Desirous  of  escaping 
from  his  terrible  rooni-nuite,  and  trusting  to  chance, 
lie  withdrew  into  the  conntry  about  Home,  commit- 
tins>:  the  issue  of  his  illness  to  God  and  to  nature. 
The  next  day,  finding  himself  on  the  mountain  cf 
Millini,  he  entered  the  habitation  of  a  hermit  who 
was  good  fellow  enough,  although  an  Italian.  (It  is 
Gretry  who  says  this.)  The  hermit  received  him 
like  a  pilgrim,  and  advised  him  to  establish  himself 
in  his  hermitage,  in  order  to  breathe  pure  air,  and 
recruit  his  streni>:th.  Gretry  shared  his  retreat  foi 
three  months.  This  little  pilgrimage  completed  what 
study  could  not  eifect.  On  leaving  this  little  The- 
baid,  Gretrv  felt  himself  all  at  once  a  ti'ue  musician. 
On  the  day  of  his  departure,  being  desirous  of  com- 
posing an  air  to  some  words  of  Metastasio,  he  felt 
conscious  that  he  was  at  last  master  of  music,  that 
lie  controlled  it,  that  he  had  all  its  keys.  ''''  Ah^fra 
MauroP''  said  he  to  his  hermit,  "  I  shall  remember 
you  to  the  day  of  my  death." 

On  his  return  to  Home,  he  set  to  music,  for  the 
carnival  and  the  theatre  of  Aliberti,  the  Ycndajh- 
geiises.  The  musicians  of  the  country  cried  out 
scandalous:  "What!  has  this  little  abbe  of  Liege 
[Gretry  wore  the  dress  of  an  abbe]  come  to  cut  our 
grass?"  This  made  Gretry's  triumph  only  the  more 
conspicuous. 

He  did  not  forget  his  friends  or  his  family.  lie 
liad  sent,  in  competition  for  the  situation  of  chapel- 
master,  the  corijltehor.  lie  obtained  the  place,  but 
did  not  leave;  however,  he  soon  quitted  Italy.  lie 
left  Home  for  Geneva.  lie  travelled  with  a  German 
baron  who  was  of  the  most  taciturn  kind.  They  passed 


GOES    TO    PARIS.  263 

over  Mount  Cenis  together  :  they  bravely  descended 
in  a  sledo-e  drawn  bv  two  Savoyards  of  twelve  yeare 
of  asje.  On  arriving  at  Geneva,  Gretry  Imrried  to  the 
theatre,  to  hear  the  French  music,  for  which  he  had 
no  great  liking.  At  Ferney,  Yoltaire  received  him 
like  a  brother.  ''  Go  to  Paris,"  said  he  to  hiiu  :  '•  it 
is  thence  that  your  genius  will  soar  to  immortali- 
ty."— "•  You  speak  familiarly  about  it,"  said  Gretry  ; 
''  one  may  see  that  you  are  accustomed  to  the 
\yord." — '*!!"  said  Yoltaire,  pleasantly;  "I  would 
exchange  a  hundred  years  of  immortality  for  a  good 
digestion."  Gretry  set  out  for  Paris,  after  having 
left  a  memento  with  the  Genevese  —  the  opera  of 
Gertrude.  At  Paris  he  felt  somewhat  out  of  his 
element.  As  he  was  young,  a  good-looking  youth, 
and  witty  withal,  he  soon  made  friends,  among  others 
Greuze  and  Yernet.  In  spite  of  these  friends,  who 
were  worth  a  great  many  others,  he  despaired  of  a 
people  who  fainted  at  Rameau's  music.  The  Prince 
of  Conti  invited  him,  thanks  to  Yeniet,  to  give  him 
a  8j)ecimen  of  his  music ;  but  the  prince,  after  having 
heard  it,  appeared  to  be  very  weary.  Gretry  re-en- 
terel  his  hotel,  completely  cast  down.  Two  anony- 
mous letters  vyere  very  opportunely  ])laced  in  his 
band.  One  was  from  Liege:  "Hash  man!  are  you 
not  going  to  contend  with  the  Philidors  and  the 
Monsignys?"  The  other  (hited  from  Paris:  "So  you 
tl)ink,  honest  citizen  of  Liege,  that  you  are  going  to 
enchant  the  Parisians':!  Get  i-id  of  that  idea,  n\y 
dear  t'elhjw  ;  jiack  your  trunks,  and  return  to  Liege, 
to  sing  your  caterwauling  nnisic."  After  a  year, 
pa'i'^ed  in  ])Overty  and  sadness,  Marmontel  came  tq 
him   with   the  opera  of  the  Huron.     Grptry,  in  de- 


264  GKKTKY. 

spair,  composed  a  sliort  mnsical  masterpiece  for  the 
poet's  sorry  verses.  The  upei-a  was  soon  played  with 
great  success.  In  Paris  it  is  all  or  nothing.  The 
evening  before  Gretry  was  an  adventurer  without  re- 
sources, the  next  day  he  was  a  great  musician,  every- 
where sought  after,  everywhere  applauded.  His  ti-i- 
umph  was  rapid.  He  did  not  sleep  that  night.  He 
thought  of  his  father.  But  that  same  night  the  poor 
violin-player  laid  down  to  his  last  sleep.  In  the 
morning,  Greuze  came  and  said,  "Gretry,  come  wMtli 
nie ;  I  want  to  show  you  a  picture  which  Avill  give 
you  great  pleasure."  He  led  him  to  the  neiglibor- 
hood  of  the  Corned ie-Italienne,  and  there  pointed 
with  his  finger  to  a  sign  freshly  painted,  Au  Huron^ 
Nicolle^  Tobacconist.''''  Gretry  who  did  not  smoke, 
entered  the  shop  immediately,  and  called  for  a 
pound  of  tobacco.  "  What  fine  tobacco !"  he  after- 
ward exclaimed. 

I  do  not  wish  to  take  you  to  all  Gretry's  operas,  of 
which  there  are  as  many  as  forty-four.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  the  TaMeau  Parlant.,  Zeniire 
et  Azoi\  La  Caravanne^  Richard  Cmur-de-Lion., 
Collinette-a-la-Cour.,  were  for  half  a  century  heard 
on  all  lips,  on  all  harj^sichords,  in  all  theatres,  and  in 
all  hearts.  Yoltaire  did  not  forget  the  young  Flem- 
ish pilgrim.  He  wrote  a  bad  opera  for  him,  which 
did  not  inspire  the  musician  at  all.  Voltaire  acted 
like  a  great  wit,  having  learned  that  an  opera  of 
Gretry's,  Le  Jugement  de  Midas^  had  been  ap 
plauded  at  the  Italienne,  after  having  been  hissed 
by  the  nobility  at  Madame  de  Montesson's  theatre, 
he  sent  this  pretty  quatrain  to  the  musician  : — 


MAKRIES.  265 

Gretry,  our  noble  lords  decry 

Tliy  songs  that  Paris  loves  to  hear; 

True,  their  chief"  claims  to  greatness  lie 
Too  often  in  their  length  of  ear. 

Grenze  had  one  day  taken  Gretiy  to  the  studio 
of  Gromdon,  his  old  master.     In  this,  as  in  all  otlier 
studios,  there    were    nmnerons    sketches,  but  there 
was  also  a  charming  face,  such  a  one  as  Murillo  or 
Van  Dyck  had  never  painted.     It  was  the  painter's 
daughter,  and   undoubtedly  his  masterpiece.     Our 
good  musician  scarcely  looked  at  any  other  picture, 
but  departed,  exclaiming,  "What  a  great  painter!" 
He  returned  to  the  studio  ;  so,  too,  did  Greuze  :  but, 
must  I  say  it,  Grenze  was  drawn  there  by  a  fatal 
love,  wdjich   he  tremblingly  kept  concealed  in  the 
bottom  of  his  heart.     He  loved  his  master's  wife  ; 
but  this  is  not  the  history  of  Greuze.     In  those  days 
the  love  which  proceeded  from  a  pure  heart  ended 
in  marriage.    After  the  obstacles  which  are  a  matter 
of  course,  Gretry  married  his  dear  Jeannette.     He 
arranged  to  his  taste  a  delightful  home,  almost  like 
a  Flemish   picture.     He  realized  the  dream  of  his 
early  years.  He  grasped  at  ha])})iness  with  both  hands, 
and    happiness,    miraculously    without   doubt,    took 
her  scat  of  her  own  accord   at  his  hearth,  altliough 
glory  was  there  already.     It  was  a  fine  time  for 
them.     Jcaiiuette,  like  an  April  bird,  sang  from  the 
dawn    the    charming    airs    of   the    musician.     She 
painted  as  an  agreeable  amusement,  loves  and  shep- 
herdesses in  the  style  of  I'oucher.     The  Love  was 
Greti-y,  the  8hepherde^s  herself.     During  this  happy 
time,  all  was  roses  and  smiles,  kisses  and  songs ! 
Tiiey  were  soon  blessed   with  three  daughters  — 

23 


!2(iG  ORETRY. 

three  charming  flowers  in  the  family-garden.  I  said 
three  flowers.  You  will  see  why.  Jeannette  nursed 
them  all,  like  a  true  mother  as  she  was.  Gretry 
cherished  them  like  three  dreams  of  love.  Alas,  they 
were  but  dreams ! 

However,  if  the  man  had  all  the  joys  of  marriage 
and  of  family,  the  musician  had  all  the  more  noisy 
joys  of  pride.  He  was  sung  in  all  the  four  musical 
countries  of  Europe.  He  was  the  man  in  fashion  all 
over  Paris,  even  at  the  court,  where  he  found  a  god- 
father and  godmother  for  his  third  daughter.  The 
queen  was  a  great  admirer  of  Gretry's  face,  which, 
according  to  Yernet,  was  the  faithful  image  of  that 
of  Pergolesi.* 

Gretry  was  therefore  happy.  Happy  in  his  wiff 
and  children,  in  his  old  mother,  who  had  come  t'^ 
sanctify  his  house,  with  her  sweet  and  venerable 
face.  Happy  in  fortune,  happy  in  reputation.  The 
years  passed  quickly  away !     He  was  one  day  very 

•  It  was  about  this  time  that  he  met  Jean-Jacques  Kousseau,  wh'^ 
was  in  his  eyes  the  greatest  man  in  France  and  Navarre.    At  a  rcpre 
sentation  of  La  Fau.sse  Mug'ie  he  heard  those  words  within  two  step.*" 
of  him  :  "  Monsieur    Rousseau,   there    is  Gn  try  whom  you  was  asii 
in:;    aliiiut    a    littie    while    ago."     Gr>'try    rushed   tnward    Rousseau 
"  How    l)a[)[)y   I  am   to  see  you  I"  said  the  philoso()hpr  to  him.     "  I 
thought    that    my  iieart  was  dead,  your  music  has  fnund   it  living.      1 
wis!i  to  know  you,  or  rather  I  aheady  knr)w  yuu  l>y  your  operas.     I 
wish  to  be  your  friend.      Are  you  married  ?''  —  '-Yes."  —  "To  a  wo- 
man of  wit  !" — 'No." — "  .So  I  supposed.'' — "  8l)e  is  ihe  daui^iiter  of  ? 
painter,  she  is  simple  as  Nature." —  'So  I  sup|>osed.     I   love   artists, 
they  are  children  of  Nature.     I  want  to  see  your  wife."     Jean-Jacques 
|>ressed   (irctry's  hand   many    times.     They    went  out  together,  and. 
passing  throui>li  tlie  Rue  Francai.i,  Rousseau  wanted  to  jump  over  & 
heap  of  stones.     Gri-lrv  seized  his  arm  :  " 'I'ake  care,  Monsieur  Rous 
seau  !"     'J'he  philosopher,  irritated,  roiii^hly  withdrew  his  arm.     "  Lei 
me  mike  use  of  my  powers!"     He  thereupon  chose  his  own   path 
without  troubling  himself  about  Gretry,  and   Gretry  never  saw  hir» 
tnjre. 


HIS    DAUGHTERS.  267 

mucli  astonished  to  learn  that  his  daughter  Jenny 
was  fifteen.  Alas  !  a  year  afterward  the  poor  child 
was  no  longer  in  the  family,  neither  was  happiness. 
But  for  this  sad  history  we  must  retm-n  to  the  past. 
Gretry,  during  his  sojourn  at  Kome,  in  the  spring- 
time of  his  life,  was  fond  of  seeking  religious  inspi- 
ration in  the  garden  of  an  almost  deserted  convent. 
He  observed  one  day,  in  the  summer-house,  an  old 
monk  of  venerable  form,  who  was  separating  seeds 
witli  a  meditative  air,  and  at  the  same  time  observing 
tliem  with  a  microscope.  The  absent-minded  musi- 
cian approached  him  in  silence.  "  Do  you  like 
ilowersf  the  monk  asked  him. — "  Yery  much."  — 
"  At  your  age,  however,  we  only  cultivate  the  flowers 
of  life  ;  the  culture  of  the  flowers  of  earth  is  pleas- 
ing only  to  the  man  who  has  fulfilled  his  task.  It  is 
then  almost  like  cultivating  his  recollections.  The 
flowers  recall  the  l^irth,  the  natal  land,  the  garden 
of  the  family,  and  what  more?  You  know  better 
than  I  who  iuive  thrown  to  forgctfulness  all  worldly 
enjoyments!"  —  "  I  do  not  see,  father,"  replied  Gre- 
try, "  why  you  sei>arate  these  seeds  which  seem  to 
me  to  be  all  alike." — "Look  through  this  microscope, 
and  see  this  l>lack  speck  on  those  which  I  place 
aside ;  but  I  wish  to  carry  the  horticultural  lesson 
still  further."  Tie  took  a  flower-pot,  made  six  holes 
in  tlie  earth,  and  |>lanted  three  of  the  good  seeds, 
and  three  of  the  sjtottcd  ones.  "  Recollect  that  the 
had  ones  are  on  the  side  of  the  crack,  and  when  you 
come  aii<l  take  a  walk,  do  not  forget  to  watch  the 
8talks  as  they  grow," 

Gretry   found   a  melancholy  charm    in   ictnining 
freipiently  ti>  tlio  garden  <»f     he  convent.     As  he 


2G8  GRETRY. 

passed  he  eacli  time  cast  a  glance  on  the  old  flower- 
pot. The  six  stems  at  first  shot  up,  each  equally 
verdant.  The  spotted  seeds  soon  grew  the  fastest, 
to  his  great  surprise.  He  was  about  to  accuse  the 
old  inonk  of  having  lost  his  wits  ;  but  what  was  af- 
terward his  sorrow,  when  he  saw  his  three  plants 
gradually  fading  away  in  their  spring-time!  With 
each  setting-sun  a  leaf  fell  and  dried  up,  while  the 
leaves  of  the  other  stems  thrived  more  and  more 
with  every  breeze,  every  ray  of  the  sun,  every  drop 
of  de^\■.  Tie  went  to  dream  every  day  before  his 
dear  plants,  with  exceeding  sadness.  He  soon  saw 
them  wither  away,  even  to  the  last  leaf  On  the 
same  day  the  others  were  in  flower. 

This  accident  of  nature  was  a  cruel  horoscope. 
Thirty  years  afterward  poor  Grctry  saw  three  other 
flowers  alike  fated,  fade  and  fall  under  the  win- 
try wind  of  death.  He  had  forgotten  the  name 
of  the  flowers  of  the  Koman  convent,  but  in  dying 
he  still  repeated  the  names  of  the  others.  They 
were  his  three  daughters,  Jenny,  Lucile,  and  An- 
toinette. "  Ah !"  exclaimed  the  poor  musician,  in 
relating  the  death  of  his  three  daughters,  "  I  have 
violated  the  laws  of  Nature  to  obtain  genius.  I  have 
watered  with  my  blood  the  most  frivolous  of  my 
operas,  I  have  nourished  my  old  mother,  I  have 
seized  on  reputation  by  exhausting  my  heart  and  my 
soul,  Nature  has  avenged  herself  on  my  children !  My 
poor  children,  I  foredoomed  them  to  death  !" 

Gretry's  daughters  all  died  at  the  age  of  sixteen. 
There  is  something:  strange  in  their  life  and  in 
their  death,  which  strikes  the  dreamer  and  the  poet, 
This  sport  of  destiny,  this  freak  of  death,  this  ven« 


DEA.TH   OF   JENNT.  269 

geance  of  Kature,  appears  here  invested  with  all 
the  charms  of  romance.     You  will  see. 

Jennj  had  the  pale  sweet  countenance  of  a  vir- 
gin. On  seeing  her,  Greuze  said  one  day :  "  If  I 
ever  paint  Purity,  I  shall  paint  Jenny,"  —  "Make 
haste  !"  murmured  Gretry,  already  a  prey  to  sad 
presentiments.  "Then  she  is  going  to  be  married ?" 
said  Greuze.  Gretrv  did  not  answer.  Soon,  how- 
ever,  seeking  to  blind  himself,  he  continued  :  "  She 
will  be  the  staff  of  my  old  age  ;  like  Antigone,  she 
will  lead  her  father  into  the  sun  at  the  decline  of 
life." 

The  next  day  Gretry  came  unexpectedly  upon 
Jenny,  looking  more  pale  and  depressed  than  ever. 
She  was  playing  on  the  harpsichord,  but  sweetly 
and  slowly.  As  she  was  playing  an  air  from 
Richard  Cceur-de-IAon^  in  a  melancholy  strain,  the 
poor  father  fancied  that  he  was  listening  to  the 
music  of  angels.  One  of  her  friends  entered — "  Well, 
Jenny,  you  are  going  to-night  to  the  ball?" — "Yes, 
yes,  to  the  ball,"  answered  poor  Jenny,  looking  to- 
ward heaven,  and  suddenly  resuming,  "  No,  I  shall 
not  go,  my  dance  is  ended."  Gretry  pressed  his 
daughter  to  his  heart.  "  Jenny,  are  you  suffering  ?" — 
"  It  is  over !"  said  she. 

She  bent  her  head  and  died  instantly,  without  a 
Btniggle !  Poor  Gretry  asked  if  she  was  asleep. 
She  slept  with  'he  angels. 

Lucile  was  a  contrast  to  Jenny ;  she  was  a  beau- 
tiful girl,  gay,  enthusiastic,  and  frolicsome,  with 
all  the  caprices  of  such  a  disposition.  She  wa£ 
almost  a  portrait  of  her  father,  and  possessed,  be- 
sides, the  same  heart  and  the  same  mind.     "Who 


270  GRETRY. 

knows,"  said  poor  Giv tiy ,  "  but  that  her  gayety  may 
save  her."  She  was  untortiiuately  one  of  those  pre- 
cocious geniuses  who  devour  their  youth.  At  thirteen 
she  had  composed  an  opera  which  was  phiyed  every- 
wliere,  Le  Marriage  d' Antonio.  A  jom-nalist,  a  friend 
of  Gretry,  who  one  day  found  himself  in  Lucile's 
apartment,  without  her  being  aware  of  it,  so  much 
was  she  engrossed  with  her  harj),  lias  related  the 
rage  and  madness  which  transported  her  during  her 
contests  with  inspiration  that  was  often  rebellious. 
"  She  wept,  she  sang,  she  struck  the  harp  with  in- 
credible energy.  She  either  did  not  see  me,  or  took 
no  notice  of  me  ;  for  my  own  ^Jart,  I  wept  with  joy, 
in  beholding  this  little  girl  transported  with  so 
glorious  a  zeal,  and  so  noble  an  enthusiasm  for 
music." 

Lucile  had  learned  to  read  music  before  she  knew 
her  alphabet.  She  had  been  so  long  lulled  to  sleep 
with  Grctry's  airs,  that  at  the  age  when  so  many  other 
young  girls  think  only  of  hoops  and  dolls,  she  had 
found  sufficient  music  in  her  soul  for  the  whole  of 
a  charming  opera.  She  was  a  prodigy.  Had  it  not 
been  lor  death,  who  came  to  seize  her  at  sixteen  like 
her  sister,  the  greatest  musician  of  the  eighteenth 
century  would,  ])erhaps,  have  been  a  woman.  But 
the  twig,  scarcely  green,  snapped  at  the  moment 
when  the  poor  bird  commenced  her  song,  Gretry  had 
Lucile  married  at  the  solicitation  (jf  his  friends. 
"  Marry  her,  marry  her,"  tliey  incessantly  repeated  ; 
"  if  Love  has  the  start  of  Death,  Lucile  is  safe." 
Lucile  suffered  herself  to  be  married  with  the  resig- 
nation jf  an  angel,  foreseeing  that  the  marriage  would 
not  be  of  long  duration.     She  suffered  herself  to  bo  ■ 


DEATH   OF   LUCILE.  271 

married  to  one  of  tliose  artists  of  the  worst  order^ 
who  .have  neither  the  religion  of  art  nor  the  fire  of 
genius,  and  who  have  still  less  heart,  for  the  heart  is 
the  home  of  genius.  The  poor  Lucile  saw  at  a 
fflance  the  desert  to  which  her  family  had  exiled  her. 
She  consoled  herself  with  a  harp  and  a  haipsichord  ; 
but  her  husband,  who  had  been  brought  up  like  a 
slave,  cruelly  took  delight,  with  a  coward's  ven- 
geance, in  making  her  feel  all  the  chains  of  Hy- 
men. She  would  have  died,  like  Jenny,  on  lier 
father's  bosom,  amidst  her  loving  family,  after  having 
sung  her  farewell  song ;  but  thanks  to  this  barbarous 
fellow,  she  died  in  his  presence,  that  is  to  say,  alone. 
At  the  hour  of  her  death,  "  Bring  me  my  liar]) !''  said 
she,  raising  herself  a  little.  "The  doctor  has  forbidden 
it,"  said  this  savage.  She  cast  a  bitter,  yet  a  suppliant 
look,  upon  him.  "  But  as  I  am  dying!"  said  she.  "You 
will  die  very  well  without  that."  She  fell  back  on 
her  pillow.  "  My  poor  father,"  nnirmuretl  she,  "  I 
wished  to  bid  you  adieu  on  my  harp;  but  here  I  am 
not  free  except  to  die  I"  Lucile,  it  is  the  nurse  who 
related  the  scene,  suddenly  extended  her  arms,  called 
Jenny  with  a  broken  voice,  and  fell  asleep  like  her 
for  ever. 

Antoinette  was  sixteen.  She  was  fair  and  smiling 
like  tlie  moin,  but  she  was  fated  to  die  like  the 
others.  Grotry  prayed  and  wept,  as  he  saw  her  growing 
pale;  but  death  was  not  stopped  so  easily.  Cruel 
tlidt  he  in^  he  stops  his  ears^  there  is  no  nse  to  pray 
to  hrni  !  Gretry,  however,  still  hoped.  "God,' 
said  h(!,  "will  be  touched  by  my  thi-icc  bitter  tears." 
He  almost  abandoned  imi-ic  in  order  t.»  Iiasc  more 
*ime  to  consecrate  to  Jiii-  dcur  Ant<tinette.     He  anti- 


272  GRETRY. 

cipated  all  her  fancies,  dresses,  and  ornaments,  books 
and  excursions,  in  a  word  she  enjoyed  to  her  heart's 
desire  every  pleasure  the  world  could  afford.  At 
each  new  toy  she  smiled  with  that  divine  smile  which 
seems  formed  for  heaven.  Grctrv  succeeded  in  de- 
ceivinjTj  himself;  but  she  one  day  revealed  to  him  all 
her  ill-fortune  in  these  words,  which  accidentally  es- 
caped from  her  :  "  My  godmother  died  on  the  scaf- 
fold :  she  was  a  godmother  of  bad  augury.  Jenny 
died  at  sixteen,  Lucile  died  at  sixteen,  and  I  am  now 
sixteen  myself  Tlie  godmother  of  Antoinette  was 
the  (jueen  Marie- Antoinette. 

Another  day,  Antoinette  was  meditating  over  a 
pink  at  the  window.  On  seeing  her  witii  this  flower 
in  her  hand,  Gretry  imagined  that  the  poor  girl  was 
Buffering  herself  to  be  carried  away  by  a  dream  of 
love.  It  was  the  dreani  of  death  !  He  soon  heard 
Antoinette  murmur :  "/  shall  die  this  spring^  this 
summer^  this  autumn^  this  winter!''''  She  was  at  the 
last  leaf. — "So  much  the  worse,"  she  said  ;  "I  should 
like  the  autumn  better." — "  What  do  you  say,  my 
dear  angel  ?"  said  Gretry,  pressing  her  to  his  heart. 
— "Nothing,  nothing!  I  was  playing  with  death; 
wliv  do  vou  not  let  the  children  plav?" 

Gretry  thought  that  a  southern  journey  would  be  a 
beneiicial  change ;  he  took  his  daughter  to  Lyons, 
where  she  had  fi'iends.  For  a  short  time  she  returned 
to  her  ffav  and  careless  manner.  Gretry  went  to 
woi-k  again,  and  finished  Guillaiirne  Tell.  He 
went  eveiy  morning,  in  search  of  inspiration,  to  the 
chamber  of  his  daughter,  who  said  to  him  one  day,  on 
awaking:  "Your  music  has  always  the  odor  of  » 
poem;  this  piece  will  have  that  of  wild  thyme." 


HTS    LAST   DAUGHTEE.  273 

Toward  autumn,  she  again  lost  her  natural  gavety. 
Gretrj  took  his  wife  aside. — "You  see  your  daughter," 
said  he  to  her.  At  this  single  word,  an  icy  shudder 
seized  both.  They  shed  a  torrent  of  teal's.  The 
same  day  they  thought  of  returning  to  Paris. — "  So 
we  are  to  go  hack  to  Paris,"  said  Antoinette  ;  "  it  is 
welh  I  shall  rejoin  there  those  whom  I  love." — She 
spoke  of  her  sisters.  After  reaching  Paris,  the  poor, 
fated  girl  concealed  all  the  ravages  of  death  with 
care;  her  heart  was  sad,  hut  her  lips  were  smiling. 
She  wished  to  conceal  the  truth  from  li(>r  father  to 
the  end.  One  day,  while  she  was  weeping  and  hiding 
her  tear>,  slie  said  to  him  with  an  air  of  gayety  :  "You 
know  that  I  am  going  to  the  ball  to-morrow,  and  I  want 
t<»  appear  well  dressed  there.  I  want  a  pearl  necklace, 
and  shall  look  for  it  when  I  wake  up  to-morrow 
morning." 

She  went  to  the  ball.  As  she  set  out  with  her 
niotlier,  Pouget  Delisle,  a  musician  more  celebrated 
at  that  time  than  Gretry,  said  ra]itnrously  :  "Ah, 
G retry,  you  ai"e  a  happy  man!  AVhat  a  charming 
girl  I  wliat  sweetness  and  grace !" — "  Yes,"  said 
Gretry,  in  a  whisper,  "she  is  beautiful  and  still  more 
amiable;  she  is  going  to  the  ball,  but  in  a  few  weeks 
we  6])all  follow  her  together  to  the  cemetery!" — 
"  AYhat  a  lioi-i-ible  idea!  You  are  losing^'our  senses!" 
— "Wriuld  I  were  not  losing  mv  heart!  I  had  three 
danghters ;  she  is  the  only  one  left  to  me,  but  already 
I  iinist  weep  for  her  !" 

A  few  days  after  this  hall,  she  to(»k  to  her  bed, 
and  fell  into  a  sad  but  hcantifid  delii'ium.  She 
had  fnimd  her  sisters  again  in  this  world;  she 
walked   with  them   hand    in   iiand  ;    she  waltzed   in 


274  QRETRY. 

the  same  saloon;  she  danced  in  the  same  quadrille; 
she  took  them  to  the  plav ;  all  the  while  recountintr 
to  them  her  imaginary  loves.  AVhat  a  picture  for 
Gretry ! — "  She  had,"  he  says  in  his  Memoires^  "some 
serene  moments  before  death.  She  took  my  hand, 
and  tliat  of  her  motliei-,  and  with  a  sweet  smile,  '  I 
see  well,'  she  mnrnnirod,  'that  we  must  hear  our 
destiny;  I  do  not  fear  death;  hut  what  is  to  becume 
of  you  two?' — She  was  propped  \\\)  ])\  her  pillow 
M-hile  she  spoke  with  us  for  the  last  time.  She  was 
laid  back,  then  closed  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  went 
to  join  her  sisters !" 

Gretry  is  very  eloquent  in  his  (jrief.  There  is  in 
this  part  of  his  Memoires  a  cry  which  came  from  his 
heart,  and  wrings  our  own. — "  Oh,  my  friends,"  he 
exclaims,  throwing  down  the  pen,  "a  tear,  a  tear 
upon  the  beloved  tomb  of  my  three  lovely  flowers, 
predestined  to  die,  like  those  of  the  good  Italian 
monk  I" 

In  order  the  better  to  cherish  his  sad  recollections, 
the  poor  musician  played  every  day  on  the  harpsi- 
chord the  old  religious  airs  which  he  had  fomierly 
heard  at  Rome,  as  he  walked  in  tlie  garden  of  the 
convent. 

Madame  Gretry  resumed  her  long-neglected  pen- 
cil ;  she  passed  her  whole  time  in  recalling  the 
graceful  and  gentle  forms  of  her  three  daughtei'S. 
The  revolution  had  swept  away  Gretry's  fortune. 
Madame  Gretry  soon  painted  for  the  first-comer. 
After  the  first  tumults  of  the  time  were  over,  Gretry's 
music  was  sang  with  more  delight  than  ever.  He 
let  Fortune  take  her  course,  and  she  1)y  degi*ees  re- 
turned him  what  he  had  lost.     But  of  what  use  ifi 


Rousseau's  hermitage.  275 

fortnnt  when  the  heart  is  desolate?  He  had  not, 
however,  yet  drained  the  cup  to  the  bottom ;  the  lionr 
had  not  come.  He  saw  his  dear  Jeannette  and  his 
old  mother  die!  K'ow  he  was  alone!  He  recalled, 
as  his  grief  grew  deeper  and  deeper,  the  old  hermit 
of  Mount  Millini. — "To  live  alone,  one  must  become 
a  hermit,"'  he  said.  But  where  to  go?  There  is,  not 
far  from  Paris,  a  l)eantitnl  Thebaid,  which  a  great 
genius  has  made  illustrious  by  his  glory  and  his  mis- 
fortunes. This  Thebaid  is  called  Tlie  Hermitage. 
Gretry  went  to  take  refuge  in  the  Hermitage  ;  it  was 
there  that  he  would  evoke,  in  the  silent  night,  all  the 
beloved  shades  of  his  life ;  it  was  there  that  he 
would  await  death  in  gloomy  pleasure! 

Gretry  found  the  rose-bush  of  Jean-Jacques  at  the 
Hermitage. — I  have  planted  it  ',  I  have  seen  it  grow. 
— He  found  a  landscape  full  of  vigor  and  luxuriance, 
which,  by  degrees,  reconciled  him  to  life.  He  aban- 
doned music  for  philosophy. — "I  am  in  the  sanctuary 
of  philosophy.  Jean- Jacques  has  left  here  the  bed  in 
which  he  dreamed  of  the  Contrat  Social^  the  table 
which  was  the  altar  of  genius,  the  crystal  lamp 
which  lighted  him  in  his  garden,  when  he  wrote  to 
his  Julia.  I  am  the  sacristan  of  these  precious 
reliques." 

In  addition  to  this,  Gretry  found  a  friend  in  his 
solitude,  an  (jld  miller  of  tlie  neighborhood,  whose 
rustic  jargon  and  Picardian  artlessncss  charmed  the 
world-wearied  musician. 

T  foi-got  to  tell  you  that  CiretiT  had  not  lost  all  his 
cliildrcn.  —  "Fate  has  de])rivod  ine  of  my  thi'ee 
dau^iiteiv ;  but  the  di-atii  of  mv  brollier  lias  just 
given  me  seven  children."  —  These  seven  chihlren 


27n  GRETRY, 

(iivti'v  protected  with  his  name  and  fortune.  Grati- 
tude, uatbrtunately,  inspired  one  of  his  lieirs  with  an 
epic  poem  on  the  ITermifagp* 

He  died  in  181.'),  in  aiitniiin,  with  tlie  flowers  of 
his  uarden ;  he  died,  leaving  some  good  deeds  and 
master-pieces  behind  him,  after  having  enchanted 
Franco  during  half  a  century.  Ask  our  grandsirea 
witli  how  great  a  charm,  how  sweet  a  smile,  and  hoAV 
gay  a  heart,  they  listened  to  him ! 

Fontenelle  said  carelessly:  "There  are  three  things 
in  this  world,  which  I  have  loved  very  miu-h,  without 
knowing  anything  about  tlicni,  music,  ])aintiiio-,  and 
women."  I  am  somewhat  of  his  o])ini()n.  We  love  the 
more  the  less  we  know;  the  women  know  this  but  too 
■well.  This  hapin'  remai'k  of  the  Norman  j)oet  comes 
very  apro])os  to  my  pen,  which  has  no  wish  to  be 
scientific  on  pleasing  music,  whose  chief  merit  is 
gayety  and  simplicity.  Gretry  was  almost  a  great 
musician,  as  AVatteau  was  almost  a  great  painter. 
His  inspiration  has  a  gentle  and  tender  reminiscence 
of  Flanders,  and  at  the  same  time  the  grace  and 
gayety  of  Paris.  He  was  of  no  school,  but  o])ened 
a  schofd  himself.  It  was  owing  to  him  that  Dalayrac 
and  Delia  Maria  sang.  He  sought  truth  rather  than 
display,  sentiment  rather  than  noise,  grace  rather 
than  force.  He  left  his  statue  on  the  stage,  and  its 
pedestal  in  the  orchestra  ;  learned  as  he  was,  he  pre- 
ferred inspiration  to  science.  "  I  want  to  make 
faults,"  he  said;  "harmony  will  lose  nothing  by 
them."  At  the  present  day  a  multitude  of  more 
noisy  masters  have  frightened  away  the  gentle  shade 

•  Thtse  children  had  others,  who  at  the  present  day  call  themselve? 
De  GrPtry. 


BECOMES    A   PIIILOSOPHEE.  277 

of  Gretrv  ;  tliev  have  smiled  a  little  at  the  recoUec- 
tion  of  the  Za  Rosiere^  and  of  Collinette^  but  who 
knows  if  some  fine  evening,  after  all  their  noise, 
Gretrv  mav  not  return  to  reanimate  our  sweetest 
smiles.* 

Gretry  was  a  musician,  poet,  philosopher,  every- 
body has  said  so  ;  his  memoirs  have  proved  it.  He 
wrote  in  an  unceremonious  M'ay,  in  the  deshal)ille  of 
a  good  citizen  of  Liege,  but  witli  the  unaffected  spirit 
of  a  richly-gifted  nature.f 

Having;  jjrown  old,  he  fancied  that  he  could 
no  longer,  as  in  his  brilliant  days,  write  his  ideas  in 
music,  so  he  wrote  them  in  bad  enough  prose.  No 
longer  being  able  to  be  a  poet,  he  became  a  philoso- 
pher, not  a  learned  one,  like  Cond iliac,  but  dreamy, 
elo([nent,  paradoxical,  like  a  disciple  of  Jean-Jacques 
and  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre.  He  had  not  read,  he 
had  only  loved.  In  place  of  seeking  knowledge  in 
books,  he  sought  it  in  himself,  invoking  his  recollec- 
tions, studying  the  contradictions  of  his  heart.  He 
wrote  three  volumes  under  tliis  terrific  title.  On 
Truth  ;  a  title  which  would  have  terrified  Diderot 
himself,  tliat  l)old  navigator  on  uidaiown  seas.  Gre- 
trv,   who  lia<l    all   the   temeritv   of  io-noiance,  com- 

•  Since  these  pii^cs  wnc  written,  Richard  Ca'ur-de-Lion  has  been 
re[irn(lnce(l  at  the  Opera  Coinique  ;  anil  at  the  present  mcimcnt  this 
ever-frosh,  ori^'iiial,  and  charming  music,  gives  a  poetic  pleasure  to 
our  musical  recolleclions. 

t  Although  a  Flpriiint;,  lie  could  say  a  good  thing.  David  was  al- 
nioiit  alwavK  along.side  of  hitn  at  the  Institute.  'J'he  painter,  one  day 
wearied  with  the  discourses  wliich  were  going  on,  auiused  iiiuiself 
with  making  a  sketch  of  a  young  negro-girl.  "  Tliis  sketch  is  to  he- 
come  precious,"  haid  Onilry  to  him.  "  Do  you  wish  it  to  l)econie  so?" 
»aid  Uavid  ;  "  ihiMi  write  under  it  some  idea  in  analogy  with  your 
art."  (jn'lry  look  the  pencil  and  wrote  the  same  moment  :  "  One 
\i  tiilr  if  triMiil  In  fun  liliirl:.i." 

•21 


278  QEETRY. 

meuced  with  these  lines  :  "  Music  is  a  good  prepara- 
tioa  for  all  the  sentimental  sciences ;  the  exact 
sciences  also,  have  some  connection  with  the  rela- 
tions existing  Ijetwcen  sounds."  The  ancient  philos- 
ophers actually  almost  made  astronomy  a  musical 
science.  They  said  that  the  stars  in  heaven  are  har- 
moniously calculated  sounds.  According  to  Cicero, 
there  is  but  one  harmony,  which  exists  in  the  uni- 
verse of  which  this  of  soimds  is  the  image.  Grctry 
avows  in  commencing  his  huok,  that  he  possesses 
l>ut  a  limited  erudition;  but  ""I  possess  an  erudition 
of  sensation.''  He  adds  :  "  Without  counting  the 
men  of  no  moment,  there  are  two  sorts  of  authors  as 
of  artists,  the  creators  and  the  combiners.  This 
woidd  prove  that  there  is  no  unity  in  num  ;  that 
he  sins  b}'  that  of  which  be  has  tou  much  as  by 
that  which  he  needs ;  that  he  is  poor  by  his  riches 
as  by  his  poverty."  He  does  not  stop  to  say  whether 
he  is  a  creator  or  a  combiner.  With  him  one  idea 
leads  to  another.  He  marches  on  without  turning 
back ;  Truth  attracts  liim,  and  he  ever  seeks  her  be- 
fore him. 

A  little  farther  on  he  narrates  the  origin  of  his 
book.  lie  was  walking  in  the  Cliamps-Elysees  when 
the  sight  of  a  group  of  children,  who  were  playing 
api)arently  in  a  very  serious  manner,  took  him  1)y 
surprise.  What  was  the  game?  They  were  meas- 
uring themselves  two-by-two  ])y  leaning  the  shoul- 
ders of  one  against  the  other,  all  standing  on  tiptoe 
and  crying,  "  I,  I,  am  the  largest  I"  And  Gretry 
said  t(j  himself:  "These  children  will  grow  up,  but, 
nevertheless,  they  will  be  all  their  lives  playing  the 
same  game  ;  and  this  game  which  occupies  them  is 


BOOK    ON    TRUTH.  279 

that  of  mar.  in  all  ages.  Yet  it  is  easy  to  show  that 
man  is  incessantly  striving  to  rise  on  tiptoe,  hence 
comes  all  our  evils.  We  mnst  re-establish  the  Truth 
in  all  her  splendor.  AYe  must  incessantly  repeat  that 
all  without  her  is  disorder ;  that  with  her  all  is  for 
the  best,  under  all  moral  points  of  view.  Before 
the  Eevolution,  the  self-love  of  the  subjugated  man 
cried  to  him,  Raise  thyself !  Now  that  he  is  up- 
right, this  same  self-love  should  remind  him  always 
to  maintaiu  his  natural  elevation." 

But  we  will  not  follow  Gretry  through  this  strange 
and  confused  dream  in  three  volumes  octavo.  Gre- 
try wrote  better  in  music  than  in  prose.  As  a  ])oet 
he  was  fresh  and  simple,  light,  graceful,  and  spiritual, 
in  a  word,  charming.  As  a  philosopher  he  is  morose 
and  sententious,  ignorant,  and  no  longer  simple. 
However,  as  the  dust  of  folios  did  not  always  taniish 
his  amiable  nnnd,  Gretry  has  still  his  happy  hours, 
especially  when  he  puts  himself  on  the  stage. 
Every  time  that  he  is  content  to  speak  as  memory 
BUSirests,  he  throws  over  his  boDk  a  final  uleam  of 
youth  and  life  which  poetically  colors  these  some- 
what sombre  pages  ;  they  might  be  called  the  pallid 
rays  of  a  setting  sun.  But  Gretry,  unfortunately 
choosing  to  be  serious,  cost  what  it  may,  heaps  clouds 
upon  clouds ;  and  if  the  setting  sun  shows  itself  here 
and  there,  it  is  almost  in  spite  of  himself. 


DIDEROT. 


AViTo  would  ever  dare  to  undertake  to  relate  tlie 
life  «>t'  Jean-Jacques,  or  that  of  Diderot  ?  Both  have 
v%'rittcu  their  confessions,  Diderot  with  the  most 
fi-'iiikness,  perhaps,  because  he  confessed  without 
Avishing  to  do  so. 

Buffon,  thinking  of  Diderot  and  of  himself,  said, 
"  The  style  is  the  man."  He  told  the  truth  in  utter- 
ing a  paradox.  Yes,  the  character  of  Diderot  is  al- 
wavs  in  his  style,  as  his  heart  is  in  his  books. 

Always  sincere,  always  influenced  by  his  feelings, 
lu-ver  by  patient  reflection,  Diderot  wrote  as  he 
spoke  —  with  enthusiasm.  A  great  poet  wanting 
rhyme,  a  great  historian  with  the  addition  of  pas- 
sion, always  in  the  forward  ranks  of  thought,  he  was 
yet  a  great  journalist  rather  than  a  great  writer.  It 
may  be  said  that  he  took  time  neither  to  make  his 
pen  ]i<»r  to  open  liis  desk.  His  desk  was  everywhere, 
at  Grimm's,  at  D'Aleml)ert's,  at  DTIolbach's,  on 
the  Icnees  of  liis  dear  Sophia. 

Thei'e  it  was  that  he  chiefly  wrote  on  every- 
t:i;i:g  great  or  small,  on  God  and  on  the  world,  on 
the  arts,  and  on  women.     Bold  even  to  insolence. 


HTs  GEimrs.  281 

adventurous  even  to  folly,  he  always  went  forward, 
guided  bv  his  generous  instincts,  scattering  with  open 
hands,  the  Truth  which  disenchants,  the  Light  wliich 
consumes,  the  Falsehood  which  consoles. 

He  was  one  of  the  first  to  paint  as  he  wrote.  His  rich 
palette  is  all  tinged  with  fire  and  flames.  His  color 
is  fresh,  even  in  its  most  delicate  shade,  especially 
when  he  paints  women  !  And  how  well  he  knew 
how  to  paint  them !  What  a  fine,  delicate,  warm 
touch  I  What  superb  lights,  what  a  delicious  back- 
ground, what  a  beautiful  genre  picture  as  well  as  a 
portrait !  He  is  at  once  an  historical  and  an  imagi- 
native painter ;  but  the  color  intoxicated  his  eye, 
and  blinded  him  to  his  faults  of  drawing. 

What  constitutes  his  charm  is  that  feeling,  sen- 
timent, poetry,  animate  each  page  of  his  works, 
whether  he  is  severe  or  familiar,  whether  he  is  wri- 
ting a  discourse  or  a  letter.  His  style  is  lively.  He 
does  not  write,  he  speaks.  He  would  have  invented 
the  whole  of  Sterne,  for  he  had  still  more  than 
Sterne,  the  intellect  of  the  heart.  Why  had  he 
not  the  leisure  to  attempt  some  elegant  verse,  for 
nothing  was  wanting  in  him  but  rhyme?  Why  did 
lie  not  sometime  awake  a  Benvenuto  Cellini  amid 
his  gold  and  diamonds  ?  So  many  othei*s  have  set 
glass-jewels  and  chased  pinchbeck  ! 

Diderot  so  far  surpassed  his  brethren  in  arms  that 
he  could,  without  astonishment,  awake  at  the  present 
day,  among  ourselves,  ])oets,  dreamers,  sul)lime 
maniacs.  Diderot  is  at  once  the  connnencement  of 
Mirabcau.  the  fii-st  cry  of  the  French  Revolution, 
and  the  last  word  of  all  our  fine  dreams.     He  was 

24* 


282  DIDEROT. 

the  truo  revolutionist.  At  the  tribune  of  1789,  he 
W'oukl  luive  effaced  Mirabeau  and  Danton;  for  when 
he  became  impassioned  in  tlie  worship  of  ideas,  he 
had  all  the  magnificence  of  the  tempest.  None  of 
liis  books  can  give  an  idea  of  his  bold  and  seductive 
eloquence. 

lie  passed  his  life  in  loving  and  lighting.  Saint 
Simon,  Fourier,  and  George  Sand,  seem  all  to  have 
taken  their  points  of  divergence  from  him.  In  real- 
ity this  bold  and  adventurous  philosopher,  M'ho  rose 
by  word  and  pen  against  the  old  society,  had 
thoroughly  revolutionary  habits.  He  went  from  his 
wife  to  his  mistress,  from  his  mistress  to  his  wife, 
from  his  wife  to  other  mistresses.  For  all  this  he 
was  none  the  less  a  sage,  loving  virtue,  but  following 
all  the  fancies  and  all  tlie  impulses  of  his  heart. 
To  live  according  to  his  heart  w^as,  so  to  speak,  the 
motto  of  his  life.  He  left  the  compass  to  D'Alem- 
bert,  gallantry  to  Ilelvetius,  pride  to  Voltaire,  vanity 
to  Grimm,  magnificent  airs  to  Buffon,  sarcasms  to 
D'lIoUtach  ;  for  his  own  part  he  opened  his  heart 
and  lived  happily. 

He  had  the  richest  nature  of  the  age,  both  in 
head  and  heart.  Behold  how  ideas  of  all  sorts  breed 
tempests  in  that  immense  forehead.  Tlie  other  chiefs 
of  the  valiant  army,  which  called  itself  the  Ency- 
clojjedia^  were  present  only  to  temper  his  warmth,  or 
profit  by  his  conquest.  All,  Jean-Jacques  himself, 
are  more  preoccupied  with  laurels  than  with  victory. 
Diderot  alone  did  not  think  of  laurels. 

A  man  worthy  of  glory  for  all  ages,  he  nevertheless 
came  in  his  own  proper  time.   The  Deity  had  marked 


HIS    GENIUS.  283 

him  with  a  fatal  seal.  The  arms  which  he  had  seized 
would  liave  broken  in  his  hauds  a  century  sooner  or 
even  a  century  later. 

He  was  the  true  philosopher  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. He  alone  utters  tones  worthy  of  Leibnitz  or 
Malebranche.  While  Montesquieu  and  Raynal  weVe 
studying  politics,  Yoltaire  tlie  philosophers,  without 
'studying  himself  enough,  Condillac  psychology, 
D'Aleuibert  geometry,  Butfon  the  pomp  of  ideas 
ratlier  than  ideas,  D'Holbach  chemistry,  Diderot 
rose  liisrher  —  he  dared  to  create  an  entire  world. 
Jean-Jacques  alone,  by  his  sublime  reveries,  ap- 
proaches him  on  these  precipitous  heights.  I  have 
said  that  Diderot  dared  to  create.  It  would  be  more 
just  to  say  that  he  dared  to  destroy.  His  work  is 
actually  one  of  destruction,  but  not  a  sterile  work. 
After  the  mournful  harvest  of  prejudice,  the  good 
seed  may  be  sown. 

Ideas  are  Ijirds  of  passage  which  traverse  the 
world,  carried  along  by  a  fragrant  breeze,  or  chased 
by  storms.  Sometimes  the  bird  of  passage  is  an 
eagle,  who  is  to  strike  with  his  unseen  wing  the 
forehead  of  a  philosopher  or  a  hei'O.  Sometimes  it 
is  a  light  swallow  Mdio  shakes  over  poets  and  lovers, 
his  wings  steeped  in  the  dew  of  the  meadows.  Di- 
derot saw  the  flight  of  the  eagle  and  the  swallow. 
The  great  wing  struck  his  forehead,  the  drop  of  dew 
fell  upon  his  heart. 

The  eagle  had  passed  over  him  on  a  stormy  day, 
as  over  V<.>ltaire,  over  Jean- Jacques,  over  all  nion  in 
advance  of  their  age. 

If  we  seek  the  origin  of  this  fervid  thought,  which 
under   the    name    of    Voltaire,    Jean-Jacques,    and 


284  DIl>EROT. 

Diderot,  nuide  of  old  inonarcliical  France,  bigoted 
and  ruined,  a  new  country,  which  will  be  free, 
strong,  and  rich,  we  niust  ask  Vanini  and  Campa- 
nella.  Italy  was  the  supreme  mother  before  France. 
In  the  same  century  she  nursed  at  her  teemiiii' 
bosom  all  the  great  ])oets  and  all  the  great  artists. 
Human  thought  has  also  come  to  us  from  that  en- 
chanted land.  Is  not  Vanini,  that  witty  cynic,  who 
was  the  first  to  doubt  and  to  scoff,  who  scattered 
trurh  by  his  biting  speech,  the  beginning  of  Voltaire  ? 
And  is  not  Campauelli,  that  bold  soul,  tliat  daring 
spirit,  the  precursor  of  Diderot?  But  why  should 
we  search  elsewhere  than  in  our  own  land  for  the 
fount'iin  which,  by  degrees,  has  become  a  rivulet,  a 
brook,  a  river,  to  fertilize  liberated  France?  Have 
not  Abelard  and  Montaigue,  Descartes  and  Habelais, 
caused  the  waters  of  health  to  leap  from  the  i-ock  ? 
Fenelou,  that  pantheist  of  such  pious  melancholy, 
who  dreamed  of  a  Calypso's  island  for  his  Eden, 
was  a  brother  of  Diderot  as  Bayle  was  of  Voltaire. 

A  light  surrounded  by  darkness  is  all  which  the 
mind  can  attain  here  below.  We  go  forward,  we 
seek  with  a  bold  eye ;  a  luminous  point  strikes  it, 
and  we  exclaim,  "  Behold  the  truth !"  We  still 
press  forward,  completely  dazzled,  the  heart  beating, 
the  soul  in  the  eyes.  Suddenly  the  darkness  becomes 
more  black,  we  have  made  a  step,  but  we  remain  on 
the  road.  We  are  in  despair,  another  ray  shoots 
across ;  we  still  wish  to  follow,  but  it  seems  the  sport 
of  him  who  knows  all  things.  We  soon  gasp  for 
breath  in  this  rugged  land,  and  retrace  our  steps  to 
the  point  of  depaiture  where  it  is  written,  "The  sun 
of  the  mind  shall  not  rise  for  thee." 


PHILOSOPHY    OF   THE    XVHITH    CENTURY.  U.'^O 

Diderot  walked  without  fear  in  the  darkness,  lie 
went  far,  but  why  did  he  say  on  his  return,  "  Beyond 
the  visible  path  there  is  nothing?"  The  philosophy 
of  the  eighteenth  century  was  wanting  in  grander.r 
and  poetry.  Its  reason  fastens  us  to  the  eartli,  and 
limits  the  horizon  ;  its  enthusiasm  never  elevates  us 
up  to  the  sacred  region,  in  which  the  soul  expands 
at  the  breath  of  God.  But  what  philosophy,  except 
that  of  Christ,  is  worthv  to  ijuide  humanitv?  That 
alone  is  the  philosophy  of  tlie  heart  and  of  the  luind- 
It  is  Heaven  smiling  upon  weeping  earth  ;  it  is  llie 
horizon  over  which  rises  the  Divine  Light ;  it  is  the 
science  of  life  —  Love  :  it  is  the  science  of  deatli  — • 


Hope  I 

To  avail  myself  of  the  parable  of  the  cvani;eiists, 
the  earth,  this  field  of  God,  in  which  his  bor.uritul 
hand  has  sown  the  good  seed.  Love,  Charity,  and 
Hope,  was  faithless  to  its  Master.  The  tares  s] ".ung 
up  among  the  good  seed  —  the  tares,  that  is  to  sav, 
ambition,  vanity,  contention.  The  good  seed  was 
near  being  choked  in  the  field,  without  air  iind 
without  sunshine,  when  Christ  came  and  said  to  it, 
"Rise  up,  I  will  sustain  you  against  the  tares  ;  and 
in  the  time  of  harvest,  I  will  gather  you,  while  the 
gleaners  shall  cast  the  tares  into  the  fire."  Thus  was 
it  that  Christ  came  and  spake  to  him  who  needed 
the  air  and  sunshine,  to  Lazarus.  What  did  he  sny 
to  her  who  needed  the  Divine  Love,  to  the  M ngda- 
len  ?  Weary  with  his  joui'ney,  he  was  resting  on  a 
Btone  in  a  city  of  Samaria  ;  it  was  at  the  sixth  \.>mv: 
a  woman  <tf  Sanuiria  came  to  draw  water.  Jesus 
Baid  mit<»  her,  "Give  me  to  driidc.  Who^uevor 
drinketh  of  this  water  shall  thirst  again  ;  but  wl.uso- 


286  DroEROT. 

t'ver  driuketh  of  tl»e  water  tliat  I  shall  give  liim 
sluill  never  thirst :  but  the  wuter  that  I  shall  give 
him,  shall  be  in  him  a  well  of  water  springing  np 
into  everlasting  life."  And  the  Savior  dropped  on 
the  withered  heart  of  the  Magdalen  a  drop  of  the 
liviuo;  water  of  Divine  Love,  and  the  Mamlalen  was 
delivered  from  the  impure  chains  of  sensuality.  Her 
arms  which  had  embraced  none  other  than  the  devil, 
were  now  stretched  out  to  God.  Christ  had  protected 
and  raised  Lazarus.  He  pardoned  the  Magdalen, 
and  reopened  heaven  unto  her.  Every  step  he  took 
forced  back  the  demon  of  evil  ;  each  word  which  he 
spt)ke  proclaimed  Divine  justice  ;  and  in  his  footsteps 
Love,  the  earnest  of  heaven,  the  fair  lily  which 
bloomed  from  a  smile  and  a  tear  of  the  Divinity, 
flourished  again  on  this  condenmed  world  as  in  its 
tirst  days. 

Did  not  the  philosophy  of  the  eighteenth  century 
then  comprehend,  that  before  its  time  a  God  had 
come  on  a  pilgrimage  here  below,  to  speak  of  Love 
to  humanity  in  a  nobler  language  than  that  of 
the  Enci/elojjedla. 

The  philosophy  of  Diderot,  however,  was  that  of 
Plato.  According  to  Plato,  God  gave  us  two  wings 
to  rise  unto  him  —  love  and  reason.  Are  we  not,  ac- 
cording to  Diderot,  to  pass  through  life  with  these 
\\\i)  wings  ?  Yoltaire,  less  tender  and  less  pensive, 
placed  reason  before  love. 

Diderot  was  the  most  impassioned  of  the  comba- 
tants in  this  ardent  army  of  philosophers,  who,  alx)iit 
1760,  agitated  so  noisily,  who  demanded  entire  lil> 
erty  —  liberty  of  thought  and  of  pen  —  liberty  be- 
foi-e  the  king,  liberty  before  God.     Diderot  reached 


THE    FKENCH   PHILOSOPnERS.  287 

the  extreme  limit  at  a  single  bound,  but  his  enthu- 
siasm often  misled  him.  He  had  too  much  of  the 
artist  for  a  philosopher.  The  head  took  the  lead,  but 
the  heart  suddenly  followed  the  head,  and  soon  out- 
stripped  it.  Even  in  thinking,  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  carried  away  by  revery.  His  power  consists  in 
his  boldness,  which  surprised  tliDse  most  inured  to 
battle.  It  is  his  disorderly  impetuosity  which  has 
all  the  majesty  of  the  storm. 

D'Alembert  might  be  painted  with  compass  in 
liand,  between  Diderot  and  Voltaire,  appeasing  the 
imj)etuosity  of  the  one  and  tempering  the  passion  of 
the  other. 

Voltaire  had  the  impetuosity  of  caprice,  of  anger, 
of  vengeance ;  the  lightning  cleft  the  cloud,  the 
storm  was  expected,  but  the  sky  soon  became  serene. 

As  a  striking  contrast,  represent  to  yourselves 
D'Alembert,  timid  and  discreet,  not  daring  to  utter 
Jiis  thought,  scarcely  daring  to  write  it  in  the  solitude 
«)f  In's  study.  Fontenclle,  who  had  his  hands  b}^  no 
means  full  of  truths,  took  good  care  not  to  open 
them.  D'Alembert,  an  expanded  echo  of  Fontenelle, 
disseminated  luit  the  rpiarter  of  the  truth.  Diderot 
would  have  rather  disseminated  an  error  than  retained 
a  truth  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  We  may  compare 
D'Alembert  again  to  Montesquieu;  we  find  the  same 
calmness  and  rpiiet.  The  Geometre-orateur  of  Gil- 
bert is  more  a  ])ortrait  than  a  satire.  A  man  ever 
temperate,  even  in  days  of  conflict,  lie  is  the  genius 
of  patience;  he  places  Heason  on  the  shell  of  the 
tortoise. — "Tteason  must  never  take  the  bit  in  her 
teeth  ;  if  she  only  progresses  that  is  sufficient." 

Diderot  was  a  rigorous  pantheist,  loving  God,  and 


288  DIDEROT. 

sayiiip;  that  the  eartli  was  an  ahar  illnmined  hy 
ireaveii.  Proud  a8  a  freeman,  who  can-ies  with  him 
the  nieinorv  <>t'  liis  goxl  actions,  lie  went  on  witiioiit 
fear  and  witliont  turnino;  aside,  sayin<;  tliat  of  the 
dastai'dly  and  tlie  g'nilty  none  should  follow  hini. 

Strange  being!  God  liad  given  him  everything  — 
enthusiasm,  poetry,  thoughts  which  flasl)cd  from  Ills 
mind  like  darts  of  lightning,  sentiments  wliicli  bloomed 
in  his  heart  like  lilies  upon  the  shores  of  the  river  of 
life !  It  is  Man  made  in  the  image  of  God  !  The 
body  was  worthy  of  sudi  a  soul;  grace  accompanied 
might;  nothing  was  wanting  to  such  a  creature, 
nothing,  unless  it  was  God  himself!  The  ])rodigal 
son  had  fled  from  the  paternal  mansion,  without  re- 
taining a  recollection,  a  pious  recollection  for  the 
benefit  of  his  evil  days ! 

But  why  accuse  him  of  atheism  ?  Atheist  1  is  not 
loving  here  below,  loving  God  on  high?  Didei'ot 
loved  all  his  life  the  works  of  God.  A  man  gifted 
like  himself  might,  in  his  houi-s  of  doubt,  fall  into  the 
eiTors  of  a  materialism  without  danger,  because  he 
animated  matter  with  all  his  poetry.  For  him,  mat- 
ter had  a  soul;  he  said  with  children:  "God  is 
everywhere;  on  earth  as  in  heaven." — Tie  never  de- 
nied the  divinity;  he  only  formed  of  it  a  changing 
image.  His  Deity  appeared  to  him  under  divei'se 
metamorphoses.  He  saw  him  especially  under  the 
form  of  a  beautiful  woman,  still  pure,  already  loving, 
lier  feet  on  earth,  her  look  raised  to  the  sky.  Some- 
times he  seemed  to  hear  him  in  the  thousand  voices 
of  the  deep  forest.  He  had  not,  like  Cabanis,  the 
fault  of  wanting  to  explain  everything.  That  was  the 
error  of  science,  and  Diderot  did  not  assume  the  er- 


WHAT   IS   THE    SOUL?  289 

rors  of  a  savant.  He  disavowed  the  impure  mate- 
rialism of  La  Mettrie.  He  had  decked  an  altar  to 
public  morality  and  private  virtue.  He  loved  his 
family ;  he  spoke  with  emotion  of  his  old  father,  the 
cutler  of  Langres ;  he  wept  at  the  thought  of  his 
daughter.  If  he  had  his  heart  open  to  all  passions, 
good  and  fetal,  he  also  had  a  heart  oj^en  to  all 
charities.  He  did  not  sing  of  Nature,  the  work  of 
God,  like  all  the  poets  and  philosophers  of  his  time, 
but  he  loved  it.  Ko  one  had  in  so  high  a  degree  the 
profound  feeling  of  universal  life.  This  man,  who 
knew  so  mucli,  who  knew  everything  except  the  be- 
ginning and  the  end,  was  surprised,  astonished  like 
a  child,  at  the  sight  of  the  woods  wliich  thought  and 
moved,  of  the  waters  which  flowed  on  for  ever,  of  the 
harvest  which  each  year  regilded  the  earth.  He 
plucked  an  ear  of  wheat  and  a  flower ;  he  looked  to- 
ward heaven ;  he  interrogated  his  heart. — "  "What 
are  you  about,  my  friend,  Diderot?"  asked  Grimm 
one  day,  when  the  philosopher  stood  thinking  in  the 
open  country. — "  I  am  listening,"  he  replied. — "  Who 
is  speakiug  to  your'— "God."— "AVelH"— "It  is 
Hebrew:  the  heart  understands,  but  the  mind  is  not 
j)laced  high  enough." 

One  evening  all  the  philosopher  were  awaiting 
supper  at  Ilelvetius'.  They  returned  as  ever  to  that 
famous  question,  "What  is  the  soul?"  When  each 
one  had  iravlvor  (jravelv  uttered  some  fine-sounding 
falsehood,  Helvetius  stamped  with  his  foot  to  obtain 
a  little  silence.  He  went  and  closed  the  window. — 
"Niirht  lias  come  on:  brinf;  me  some  fii-e." — A 
Ijrazier  of  charcoal  wivs  brought  in  ;  he  took  t  lif  tongs, 
went  to  a  candle-bracket,  ami  l»li'W  u]Min  the  coal;  a 


200  DIDEROT. 

candle  was  liglited. — "Take  awaj  this  god,"  said  he, 
showing  the  coal ;  "  I  have  tlie  soul,  the  life  of  the  first 
man !  Xuw  the  lire  which  has  answered  my  purpose  is 
to  he  found  everywhere  —  in  the  stone,  in  the  wood, 
in  the  atmosphere.  The  soul  is  the  fire,  and  the  fire 
is  the  life.  The  creation  (»f  the  world  is  an  hypothesis 
much  more  marvellous  than  that  which  I  have  sought 
to  explain  to  you." — A\''ith  these  words,  Helvetius  lit 
a  second  candle. — "  You  see  that  my  first  nuin  has 
transmitted  life  without  the  aid  of  a  god  !" — "  You 
do  not  see,"  said  Diderot  then  to  him,  "  that  you 
have  proved  the  existence  of  God  in  seeking  to  deny 
it;  for  I  know  very  well  that  life  is  on  the  earth,  but 
still  there  must  needs  have  been  some  one  to  have 
lighted  the  fire.  I  fancy  that  the  charcoal  would  not 
have  lit  itself" 

Diderot  never  denied  God,  for  he  saw  him  every- 
where ;  at  the  most,  he  doubted :  now,  as  some  one 
has  said,  "  To  doubt  is  still  to  believe." 

But  how  can  we  study  him,  with  his  thousand  con- 
tradictions? As  a  man  of  sincerity,  in  his  life,  as  in 
his  works,  he  contradicted  himself  every  day  and  on 
every  page. 

Diderot  is  one  of  the  great  figures  which  shine  out 
predominantly  in  the  picture  of  an  age.  He  holds 
an  elevated  place  as  an  artist  and  philosopher  in  the 
history  of  the  arts  and  of  ideas.  His  memory  pos- 
sesses an  indescribable  grandeur  and  charm.  He  is 
the  genius  of  paradox,  the  heroism  of  audacity  and 
of  passion.  He  carries  the  eighteenth  century  on  his 
shoidders,  as  the  Atlas  of  old  carried  the  heavens ! 
No  one  thinks  of  raising  a  statue  to  him,  but  has  he 
aot  a  temple  —  an  eternal  temple,  although  already 


THE   EXCYCLOPEDIA.  291 

rained,  the  Encyclopedia^  whence  issued  the  revohi- 
tion,  completely  armed  ? 

The  ruins  of  the  Encyclopedia  will  be  piously 
admired  in  future  time,  like  the  sacred  fragments  of 
the  Parthenon.  When  the  architect  is  a  great  artist, 
the  temple  survives  the  god  w'ho  was  worshipped  in 
it.  The  philosophy  of  Diderot  has  fallen  from  the 
altai';  hut  his  temple  will  never  he  thrown  down  I 


BOUCHER. 


In  the  history  of  painting  in  France,  during  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  we  find  two 
scliools,  or  rather  two  families  of  painters,  springing 
up  ahnost  simultaneously,  and  holding  alternate 
sway.  The  one,  grand  and  forcible,  drawing  the 
sources  of  its  life  from  the  holy  inspiration  of  God 
and  of  Kature,  which  still  adorns  human  beauty  with 
memorials  of  heaven,  and  with  the  splendor  of  the 
ideal ;  the  other  gracefid  and  coquettish,  which  does 
not  look  for  inspiration,  which  contents  itself  with 
being  pretty,  with  smiling,  arid  even  charming  at 
the  expense  of  truth  and  grandeur.  The  ol)ject  of 
its  search  is  not  the  pure  and  simple  beauty  which  is 
radiant  with  the  sentiment  of  divinity,  it  seeks  only 
to  attract.  The  first  exhibits  Art  in  all  her  splendor, 
the  second  is  but  the  falsehood  of  Art.  In  the 
seventeenth  century,  Poussin  and  Mignard  were  at 
the  head  of  these  two  families  f>f  art,  as  I  have  called 
them.  The  one  has  the  beauty  of  force  and  simpli- 
city, the  other  that  of  grace  and  clevemess.  Tliis 
striking  contrast  was  reproduced,  in  a  feebler  form, 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  by  the  Yanloos  and  Bou- 


PAINTERS    OF   THE    X    ifiTII    CEXTURY.  203 

cliers.  The  Yaiiloos,  thor.gli  they  did  not  await  the 
liour  of  inspiration,  thoiigli  they  could  not  rise  higli 
enough  to  grasp  the  sui)reme  beauty,  set  out  with 
the  noble  ardor  of  Poussin,  and  reached  only  theat- 
rical display ;  they  stopped  half  way  in  their  jour- 
ney, but  they  at  least  preserved  a  remembrance  of 
their  point  of  departure.  When  the  power  was  at 
default,  the  aim  saved  the  work.  We  can  not  for- 
get those  natural  artists  who  brought  from  Flandere 
the  freshness  of  their  fields.  Despite  their  noble  ef- 
foi'ts,  serious  art  soon  expired,  overcome  by  the  pro- 
fane scho<»l  of  Watteau.  Watteau,  M-ho  reigned 
during  the  I'egency,  gave,  so  to  speak,  the  color  to 
his  time.  The  painter,  however,  who  most  faithfully 
represents  art  in  the  eighteenth  century',  is  Boucher. 
Is  it  not  curious  to  study  in  Boucher,  the  caprice 
which  holds  sovereign  sway,  without  reverence  for 
the  past,  and  without  regard  for  the  future?  Bou- 
cher, whatever  may  be  the  contempt  of  some,  or  the 
]>ity  of  otliers,  will  always  hold  a  place  in  the  history 
of  Art.  We  can  not  reject  this  painter,  who  reigned 
for  forty  vears,  overwhelmed  with  fame  and  for- 
tune  —  this  painter,  protesting  in  his  unrestrained 
fi'oedom  against  the  recognised  mastei"S,  o])ening  a 
Rcln»<»l  fatal  to  all  that  is  noble,  grand,  and  beau- 
tiful, and  yet  not  devoid  of  a  certain  coquettish 
grace,  a  certain  magic  of  color,  and,  finally,  a  certain 
charm  before  miknown.  David,  who  was  his  ])upil, 
always  recalls,  amid  his  statiK'S(pie  Ilonians,  the 
Miiiliiig  faces  of  I'oiiclier.  Oii-odct  himself,  who 
souglft  for  granilcnr  an<l  sentiment  in  sim])licitv, 
lU'vi-r  disdaiiu'd  this  jiainter.  He  solicitously  col- 
lected all  his  designs,  In-  lingered  over  them  as  over 

fl5* 


204  BOUCHER. 

tlie  rccol.ections  of  the  wildness  of  yontli.  ""We 
have  grown  old  while  surrounded  by  this  p;raceful 
exhibition  of  court  shepherdesses.  Shall  we  be  able 
to  recover  ourselves  again?  These  are  faithless  mis- 
tresses, long  forgotten,  who  again  present  themselves 
to  us  when  we  are  wearied  by  the  tiresome  monot- 
ony of  marriage."  It  is  esteemed  good  taste  to  con- 
denm  Boucher — 'W-e  thus  gain  the  credit  of  being 
good  and  moral  judges,  but  the  honest  critic  will 
recognise  Boucher  as  the  historian  does  Louis  XY. 

Mignard  was  the  first  in  France  to  allow  himself 
to  be  seduced  by  tlie  false  attractions  of  that  worldly 
grace  which  proscribes  art.  Art  only  admits  the 
deception  which  is  styled  the  ideal ;  that  is  to  say, 
all  that  ennobles,  elevates,  and  poetizes  the  truth. 
Having  to  take  the  portraits  of  the  ladies  of  the 
court,  Mignard  did  not  paint  them  as  they  were,  but 
as  they  wished  to  be.  Hence  those  smiles  not  of 
earth  which  enchant  us,  hence  those  looks  raised  to 
heaven,  but  still  moist  with  pleasure.  "We  understand 
how  he  became  the  most  admired  of  all  portrait- 
painters  ;  he  was  false  to  truth,  everybody  knew  it, 
his  models  as  well  as  himself;  but  no  one  was  so  ill- 
advised  as  to  reproach  him  for  his  gallantry.  There 
was  not  one  of  his  duchesses  who  did  not  proclaim 
her  likeness  a  striking  one.  The  false  painters  are 
the  painters  of  women.  He  thus,  not  only  amassed 
a  s])lendid  fortune,  but  funned  a  school,  a  charming 
and  dangerous  school,  which  became  extinct  only 
throujrh  its  abuse  of  fiilsehood.  Watteau  followed 
the  steps  of  Mignard,  but  with  a  more  piquant  and 
delicate  charm.  Mignard  had  spoiled  or  adorned, 
whichever  you  please,  the  great  ladies  of  the  court; 


PAINTEES    OF    THE    XVniTH    CENTURY.  295 

Watteau  took  up  the  actresses,  the  citizens'  femilies, 
tlie  peasant-girls.  It  would  be  impossible  to  say  how 
nu\ny  charming  and  gay  masquerade  scenes  he  has 
painted  in  the  wantonness  of  art.  Another  falsifier 
appeared,  Lemoine  by  name  ;  lie  perpetrated  more 
serious  falsehoods  of  a  mythological  character.  His 
most  serious  and  most  remarkable  production  was 
Francis  Boucher,  his  pui^il,  the  falsitier  jpar  excel- 
lence,, the  most  faithful  portrait  of  his  time. 

Lemoine  had  studied  more  especially  in  the  school 
of  Hiibens.  Like  that  great  master  he  had  sacrificed 
correctness  of  drawing  to  splendor  of  color.  The 
ceiling  of  the  Chapel  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  Saloon 
of  Hercules,  at  Versailles,  form  his  principal  works. 
Certainly,  judging  by  these,  he  was  an  artist  not  devoid 
of  force  and  grace.  He,  however,  at  once  plunged 
into  bad  taste,  in  seeking  richness  rather  than  force, 
magical  eft'ect  rather  than  beauty. 

Lafi  >sse,  Jouvenet,  Lemoine,  Coypel,  and  De  Troy, 
were  then  masters  of  the  prevailing  school.  AVatteau, 
who,  ill  truth,  was  more  of  an  artist  than  all  of  them 
]»ut  together,  i)assed  in  their  eyes  merely  for  a  deco- 
rative painter  of  the  opera.  He  was,  however,  more 
truthful  iu  his  charming  falsehoods  than  all  those 
masters  who  got  hold  of  truth  by  the  wrong  end. 
Since  the  death  of  Lesueur,  France  had  been  wait- 
ing for  a  great  painter.  Lebrun  had  attracted  the 
attention  which  was  tunied  aside  from  Poussiu  and 
TiCsueur,  whose  sul)lime  power  was  not  recognised. 
Study  it!  art  was  conducted  as  chance  determined, 
sometimes  at  Rome  after  Carlo  INfai-atti  and  Alhano, 
wliit  were  taken  for  great  j»ainters,  sometimes  at 
I'aris  after  I.elinin  and  .Nri'Miar<l,  who  were  tlK»u<flit 


290  BOUCHER. 

greater  than  Poussin  and  Lesuenr.  In  1750,  pnoi 
to  the  critiques  of  Ditlerot,  tlie  Marquis  d'Argens, 
who  was  a  man  of  talent,  declared,  judging  ac- 
cording to  the  prevailing  opinions  of  his  day,  that 
Mignard  equalled  Correggio;  Lehrun,  Michael  An- 
gelo;  and  Lenioine,  Kuhens. 

After  the  death  of  Mignard  and  Lehrun,  Leinoine 
took  the  first  place ;  he  was  more  worthy  of  it  than 
the  De  Troys  and  the  Cojpels.  lie  M'as  the  only 
one  who  left  a  pupil  of  recognised  ability,  Francis 
Boucher,  of  wlioni  the  Marquis  d'Argens  thus  speaks : 
"A  univ^ersal  genius,  who  unites  in  himself  the  talents 
of  Veronese  and  of  Gaspar,  copying  from  Nature  lier 
most  charmino;  c^race." 

Boucher  was  born  at  the  same  time  that  Bossnct 
died.  Some  few  vestiges  only  of  the  great  reign 
were  left.  Fontenelle  alone  (that  presentiment  of  the 
eighteenth  century)  was  standing,  in  the  proportions 
of  a  dwarf,  on  the  tombs  of  Corneille,  of  Poussin,  of 
Moliere,  of  Lesuenr,  and  of  La  Fontaine.  France 
was  exhausted  bv  her  maa-nificent  births;  the  sacred 
breasts  of  the  mother-country  were  almost  dried  up 
when  Boucher'^s  lips  were  applied  to  them.  Who, 
however,  would  believe  that  Boucher  "was  one  of  the 
most  forcible  expressions  of  an  entire  century  ?  But 
really,  was  not  the  eighteenth  century,  for  fifty  years, 
like  Boucher,  full  of  foUv,  treatina'  evervthino;  with  a 
laugh,  passing  from  caprice  to  scoffing,  delighting  it- 
self in  petty  deceits,  replacing  art.  l)y  artifice,  living 
from  day  to  day  without  memory,  without  hope,  dis- 
daining force  for  grace,  dazzling  others  as  well  as  it- 
self by  his  factitious  colors?  When  poetry  and  taste 
so  readily  went  astray,  with  the  Abbe  de  Voisenon 


AS    AKTIST.  297 

and  Gentil-Beniard,  who  will  be  surprised  that  paint- 
ing should  have  trifled  with  the  pencil  of  Boucher? 

TVe  see  at  the  tii-st  glance  at  one  of  his  pictures, 
tliat  he  dwelt  among  stones,  and  not  in  the  fields. 
He  never  took  time  to  look  at  either  the  sky  or  a 
river,  a  meadow  or  a  forest ;  it  might  even  ue 
douhted  whether  he  ever  saw  a  man  but  thronijh  a 
]>rism,  or  whether  he  ever  saw  a  woman  or  child 
6uch  as  God  made  them.  Boucher  painted  a  new 
world,  the  world  of  fairies,  where  every  one  is 
moved,  every  one  loves  and  smiles  after  a  fashion 
quite  different  from  that  of  this  world.  He  is  an 
enchanter  who  distracts  and  dazzles  us  at  the  ex- 
pense of  reason,  taste,  and  art ;  he  reminds  us  some- 
what of  this  line  of  Bernis,  a  poet  worthy  such  a 

painter : — 

By  dint  of  Art,  Art's  self  is  banished. 

There  had  been  painters  before  of  the  name  and 
family  of  Boucher;  one  among  others  who  left  some 
wonderful  designs  in  red  chalk  of  mythological  sub- 
jects. He  Avas  Mignard's  master;  Mignard  gave 
lessons  to  Lemoine ;  Lemoine  to  Boucher ;  so  that 
the  jtainter  was  enabled  thus  to  receive  ti-aditionally 
lessons  from  his  great-grandfather.  Unfortunately, 
he  had  the  ])ervei*sity  to  receive  nothing  from  tradi- 
tion l)ut  the  falsities  of  Mignard  and  Lemoine. 

Boucher  never  possessed  the  enthusiasm  of  an 
earnest  artist.  Ho  became  a  jiainter  as  uncere- 
moniously as  he  wi>uld  have  nuxde  himself  a  journal- 
ist. It  was  during  those  fine  times  wlicii  A'oisenon 
tunu'd  j)riest  wliile  writing  operas.  Every  one  wanted 
faith,  in  the  arts,  in  literature,  at  the  foot  of  fjie 
HJfar,  even  on  the  fhi-one.      I)i<l    L"iii^  X  \  .  Iiiniself 


298  BOUCHER. 

l)clievc  in  royalty?  Tnit  liow  can  we  find  fault  with 
]'>ouc]K'r?  Would  he  not  have  been  overwhelmed 
with  ridicule  if  he  had  been  an  artist  in  all  serious- 
ness, studying  with  patience,  growing  pale  with  as- 
pirations after  greatness,  lie  preferred  being  of  his 
age,  of  his  day  and  generation.  He  commenced  like 
a  youtli,  throwing  to  the  lirst  wind  that  blew,  all  the 
roses  of  his  twenty  years.  He  had  two  studios  :  one 
was  that  of  Lemoine ;  the  other  and  principal  one 
was  the  opera.  AYas  not  that  Boucher's  true  theatre? 
AVas  it  not  at  the  opera  that  he  found  his  landscapes 
and  his  portraits?  Opera-landscapes,  opera-person- 
ages, form  pretty  much  the  M'hole  of  Boucher!  The 
two  studios  formed  a  singular  contrast ;  in  the  first 
was  Lemoine,  grave,  sad,  devoured  with  pride  and 
envy,  discontented  Avith  everything,  with  his  pupils 
and  himself:  in  the  second  was  the  wliole  lau<rhin<r 
retmue  of  human  follies;  gold  and  silk,  wit  and 
]»leasure,  the  lips  smiling,  and  the  petticoat  flying  in 
the  wind.  It  was  in  those  fine  times  Mhen  Camargo 
found  that  her  skirts  were  too  long  for  the  dance.  In 
order  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  all  these  Avonders, 
Boucher  asked  the  favor  of  painting  a  decoration. 
He  picked  np  the  sparkling  pencil  of  Watteau,  to 
])aint  in  bold  outline  the  nymphs  and  naiads.  Carl 
Vanloo  joined  him;  in  a  little  Mhile,  they  made 
themselves  masters  of  all  the  decorations  and  the  es- 
jjaliers  (such  Avas  the  ai)pe]hition  of  the  figurantes 
of  the  time). 

There  was  then  flourishing  in  society,  and  out  of  it, 
a  circle  of  wits,  like  the  C<»unt  de  Caylus,  Duclos, 
Pont-de-Veyle,  Maurei)as,  Montcrif;  Yoisenon,  and 
Crebilloii  tlie  Ciay,  Colic,  and  certain  prodigal  sons 


"THESE    GENTLEMEN."  299 

of  good  citizens,  liad  the  entree,  thanks  to  their  wit 
or  their  gayetj'.  They  wrote  couplets  on  all  sorts  of 
things,  and  tirades  in  the  form  of  a  gazette,  which 
circulated  about  the  court  and  city ;  burlesque  scenes, 
which  were  played  in  the  saloons  and  in  the  open 
air ;  licentious  stories,  which  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  like  the  last  bit  of  current  news.  It  was  the 
literature  of  the  opera.  Boucher  was,  therefore,  re- 
ceived with  favor  into  the  society  of  these  gentlemen^ 
for  such  was  the  name  they  took.  At  a  later  day, 
D'Alerabert  delivered  a  somewhat  severe  judgment 
on  the  works  of  these  gentlemen^  by  calling  their  joint 
productions,  "  a  drunken  surfeit,  rather  than  a  gay 
debauch  of  wit."  Duclos,  the  representative  of  this 
academy  of  bad  taste,  was  thus  portrayed  by  Madame 
de  Rochfort ;  she  is  referring  to  the  passions  of  the 
heart;  she  is  speaking  of  that  paradise  which  each 
one  made  for  himself  in  this  world,  according  to  his 
own  notion :  "As  for  you,  Duclos,  the  material  for 
yours,  when  you  are  amorous,  is  the  first  woman  that 
comes  along." — ^This  portrait  may  be  taken  for  Bou- 
cher, and  for  all  the  members  of  that  circle. 

In  lieu  of  following,  step  by  step,  a  biography,  cm- 
l)roidered  everywhere  with  adventures  of  gallantry, 
I  prefer  to  relate  an  adventure  which  displays  Bou- 
cher, at  the  best  period  of  his  life,  seeking  for  art  and 
love  in  truth,  fleeing  from  them  as  soon  as  found,  to 
fall  again  still  deeper  into  falsities  of  art  and  of  love. 
No!  I  will  not  recount  to  you  all  Boucher's  follies  at 
the  opera;  tliose  bursts  of  licentious  gayoty,  in  which 
the  heart  had  no  ])art.  It  is  a  woniout  theme :  all 
the  writers  of  memoirs  have  trudged  (»vcr  the  mad. 
wliich  is  a  sufficient  reason  fur  my  turning  finni   it. 


300  BOUCHER. 

Of  wluit  uso  is  t,  besides,  to  evoke  the  shades  of 
those  aniuurs  without  house  or  home,  faith  or  law, 
whicli  shoot  forth  ouly  blunted  arrows?  Let  us, 
therefore,  follow  iHMicher  during  those  rare  moments 
when  his  heart  was  in  i)lay,  when  his  talent  became 
almost  severe.  It  is  good  to  be  young  and  to  laugh, 
but  what  is  there  more  sad  than  a  man  who  is  always 
laughing? 

Boucher  soon  became  disgusted  with  the  opera; 
with  those  sham  pictures,  which  lie  produced  as  if  by 
magic,  to  decorate  the  Castor'  and  Pollux  of  Rameau 
and  Gentil-Bernard ;  with  tlie  sham  love,  in  which  he 
culled  faded  roses  without  thorns ;  he  did  not  know 
thy  value  of  the  thorn  which  guards  a  rose !  those  sham 
paintings  and  sham  loves  had  bewildered,  dazzled, 
and  enchanted  him,  as  long  as  the  white  hand  of 
youth  scattered  primroses  along  his  path.  The  most 
luxuriant  and  most  prodigal  youth,  however,  is  that 
wliich  is  the  soonest  exhausted.  Boucher  awoke  one 
morning,  sad  and  disenchanted, without  knowing  why, 
lie  at  last  understood  that  he  had  until  then  profaned 
his  heart  and  art,  and  that  he  had  thus  lost  all  the 
glorious  morn  of  life.  lie  still  raised  his  head  with 
some  remnant  of  natural  pride. — "It  is  always  time  to 
do  well,"  said  he  one  morning  to  his  master,  whose 
lessons  he  attended  (.»nly  at  distant  intervals.  He  made 
a  tstudio  of  his  boudoir;  he  retouched  all  the  gallant 
sketches  that  he  had  hanging  on  all  sides.  Love  the 
Bird-Catcher^  Love  the  Reaper^  Love  the  Vin- 
tfu/er ;  you  can  imagine  the  whole  of  that  gay  and 
Kpai'kling  poem,  where  Love  has  no  time  for  sighing, 
lie  closed  his  Mythology,  which  he  had  consulted 
a  thousand  times  ;   he  boiight  a  bible,  but  though  ho 


THE    AKTIST   AND   HIS    BIBLE.  301 

had  road  the  Mythology  with  fervor,  he  could  scarce 
simiinon  energy  to  tuni  over  the  leaves  of  the  Bible, 
and  cast  here  and  there  a  careless  glance.  Unfor- 
tunately for  him  he  had  the  Mythology  by  lieart : 
Cupid  concealed  the  form  of  the  infant  Christ,  loves 
concealei  the  angels,  the  nymphs  of  Yenus,  the 
serajdis  of  Paradise.  He  was  not,  however,  dis- 
couraged at  the  first  attempt.  He  persisted  in  timi- 
ing  over  the  Book  of  books,  he  saw  Rachel  at  the 
well  ;  ill-fated  man,  he  was  reminded  of  Venus 
at  the  bath.  He  closed  the  Bible,  saying  to  himself 
that  to  get  the  painted  beauties  of  the  opera  out  of 
one's  head,  it  was  onlv  needful  to  see  some  natural 
faces ;  but  where  to  find  them  at  that  time,  unless 
he  should  look  for  them  in  the  cradle  ?  Who  knows? 
Labor  is  a  wonderful  preserver.  Perhaps,  by  de- 
scending among  the  people,  he  might  discover  some 
angelic  face,  that  the  spirit,  or  rather  the  demon  of 
the  age,  had  left  untouched,  a  face  worthy  of  convey- 
ing to  him  an  idea  of  the  majestic  simplicity  of  the 
Bible.  Boucher,  therefore,  sought  inspiration  in  the 
open  air,  resolved  to  traverse  the  great  city  every- 
where, resolved  even  to  go,  if  necessary,  to  study  in 
tlie  open  country,  under  the  sun  in  the  meadow,  or  in 
the  shadow  of  some  holy  village-church.  For  more 
than  three  weeks  he  lived  by  himself  He  ended 
by  freeing  himself  little  by  little,  shred  by  shred, 
fi-om  the  deeply -impiessed  recollections  of  the  opera. 
"  Wliat  are  you  about  ?"  the  Count  de  Caylus  asked 
hini  one  day.  "Doing  penance,"  he  replied  with 
an  abstracted  air. 

'\\w.   will    is   the   s(»v('ri'igu   misti'css  of  the   world. 
A  Mian  of  good   reS(»lution  can  c-on<juer  everything; 


302  BOUCHER. 

it  IS  a  rongli  virtue,  an  imlioped-for  *>;lorv  —  it  is 
genius  itself,  that  ondless  ladder  which  the  Deity  al- 
lows to  descend  at  intervals  to  join  t-arth  to  heaven, 
breakiniT  it  asunder  when  man  nioinits  too  quickly 
or  too  slowly,  l^v  dint  of  will,  who  would  believe 
it^  Boucher  threw  a  veil  over  iiis  past  life,  broke 
the  deceitful  i)risms  which  blinded  liini  regarding 
this  world,  discovered  another  horizon,  another 
source  of  light.  A  young  girl  in  his  neighborhood, 
whom  he  had  until  then  scarcely  remarked,  so  frivo- 
lous and  insipid  had  her  sublime  purity  seemed  to 
him,  suddenly  struck  him  as  beaming  with  supreme 
beauty. 

His  studio,  or  rather  boudoir,  was  in  the  Rue 
Richelieu.  Not  far  from  it,  in  the  Rue  St.  Anne, 
he  passed  almost  every  day  the  shop  of  a  fruiterer. 
He  often  saw  a  young  girl  on  the  door-step  without 
beiTig  much  struck  by  her,  although  she  was  beauti- 
ful, simple,  and  touching.  Sed\iced  by  the  studied 
o-races  of  Camar2;o,  could  he  be  sensible  of  the 
charms  of  so  gentle  and  chaste  a  beauty  ?  One  day, 
after  three  weeks  of  austere  solitude,  he  stopped  as- 
tonished before  the  fruit-shop.  It  was  when  clierries 
were  in  season.  Baskets  of  the  freshly-gathered  fruit 
tempted  the  passers-by  with  their  charming  hues ;  a 
ifarniture  of  leaves  half  concealed  the  fruit  which 
was  not  (piite  ripe.  But  it  was  not  for  the  cherries 
that  Boucher  stopped.  As  he  passed,  the  fruit- 
erer's daughter,  with  bare  arms  and  loosely  flowing 
liair,  was  serving  a  neighbor.  You  sliould  have  seen 
her  take  the  cherries  in  her  delicate  hand,  put  them, 
without  any  other  measure,  into  the  lap  of  her  cus- 
tomer, an  1  give  a  divine  smile  in  retum  for  the  four 


o 


THE   FKUITEREr's    DAUGHTER.  303 

SOUS  she  received  in  payment.  The  painter  wonld 
have  given  four  louis  for  the  cherries,  for  the  hand 
wliich  served  them,  and  above  all  for  the  divine 
smile.  When  the  customer  had  gone,  he  advanced 
some  steps  without  knowing  what  he  was  going  to 
8:iy.  lie  was  a  perfect  master  in  the  art  of  gallantry. 
There  was  not  a  woman  that  he  did  not  know  h:Ow 
to  attack  on  her  weak  side,  face  to  face,  side%Arise,  or 
by  turning  his  back  on  her.  He  had  been  at  a  good 
school.  He  had  long  since  said  to  himself,  like 
Danton  at  a  later  period,  "Courage,  courage,  always 
courage."  He  was  right.  Are  you  not  sure  of  van- 
quishing a  woman  by  treating  her  as  an  enemy? 
How  happened  it,  however,  that  Boucher  on  that 
day  lost  all  his  force  and  courage,  at  the  sight  of  this 
simple  and  feeble  young  girl?  Is  it  because  strength 
is  roused  only  by  strength  ?  The  serpent  who  ruined 
Eve,  surprised  her  in  her  weakness  only  because  the 
spirit  of  evil  did  not  yet  understand  women. 

Boucher,  who  had  advanced  resolutely  like  a  man 
who  is  sure  of  his  object,  crossed  the  tlu'eshold  of 
the  fruiterer,  all  pale  and  trembling,  and  very  much 
at  a  loss  what  to  say.  The  young  girl  regarded  him 
witii  so  much  serenity  and  calmness,  that  he  some- 
what recovered  his  presence  of  mind.  He  asked  for 
cherries,  and  soon  rail  vin£r  himself,  bec:<j;ed  the  vouns 
girl  to  allow  him  to  sketch  her  beautiful  face.  She 
nuulc  no  answer.  The  inother  entered.  As  Boucher 
was  a  man  of  fine  address,  and  the  mother  a  co- 
ciuotte  on  the  wane,  he  succeechMl  in  obtaininjj  her 
c^msent  to  tiikc  the  portrait  at  liis  leisure.  She 
br<iii<r]|t  licr  daughter  tlie  next  day  to  the  ])ainter'9 
studio.     Houcher  did   not  detain   the  mother.     Ho 


3()i  BOUCHER. 

iniule  tlie  claiighter  take  her  seat  on  a  sofii,  sliiiq)enGcl 
Ills  pencil,  and  set  to  work  with  great  jo)'. 

liosiiia  possessed  tliat  description  of  beauty,  which 
is  ignorant  of  its  own  attractions,  M'hich  tonclies 
rather  than  seduces.  Her  regular  profile  called  up 
})leasant  recollections  of  the  antique  lines  of  heauty. 
She  was  a  brunette,  but  her  locks  reflected  in  the 
liii'ht  those  beautiful  golden  tints  which  charmed 
Titian.  Her  eyes  were  of  an  undecided  hue,  like 
the  sky  during  some  autunm  twilights;  her  mouth, 
somewhat  large,  perhaps,  had  a  divine  expression  of 
candur,  an  expression  which  Rosina  spoiled  in  speak- 
ing, said  Boucher,  '^rather  by  her  words  than  by  the 
motion  of  her  lips.  Thus  the  sweetest  hours  which 
I  ])assed  with  her,  were  the  most  silent.  I  always 
liked  what  she  was  about  to  say,  and  scarcely  erer 
what  she  did  say." 

The  artist  had  been  attracted  before  the  man. 
Boucher  had  l)egunby  seeing  in  her  a  divine  model ; 
but,  all-engrossed  as  he  was  by  his  art,  he  soon 
ended  by  regarding  Rosina  only  as  a  woman.  His 
heart,  which  had  never  had  time  to  love  in  the  crowd 
of  the  more  than  profane  passions  of  the  opera,  felt 
that  it  was  not  barren.  The  flowers  of  love  sprang 
up  under  the  flames  of  volu})tuousness.  Boucher 
became  enamored  of  Rosina,  not  like  a  man  who 
makes  a  sport  of  love,  but  like  a  poet  who  loves 
with  tears  in  his  eyes :  a  tender  love,  pure  and 
worthy  of  that  heaven  to  which  it  rises,  and  M-hence  it 
has  descended.  Rosina  loved  Boucher.  How  could 
she  help  loving  him  who  gave  her  double  assurance 
of  her  beauty,  both  by  his  lips  and  by  his  skill,  for 
Rosina  did  not  trulv  realize  that  she  was  beautifid 


ROSINA,    niS    MODEL    AXD   LOVE.  305 


until  sbe  beheld  the  head  of  the  virgin,  which  the 
poet  had  designed  after  that  of  the  young  girl. 
What  was  the  resnlt  ?  Yon  can  gness.  They  loved  one 
another  :  they  told  one  another  so.  One  day,  after 
glances  far  too  tender,  the  pencil  fell  from  the  artist's 
hand,  the  yoimg  girl  cast  her  eyes  down..."  Ah  I 
poor  Rosina,"  exclaimed  Diderot,  meditating  over 
the  matter  at  a  later  period,  "  wliy  were  you  m;)t 
selling  cherries  on  that  day  !" 

The  virgin,  which  was  to  be  the  master-piece  of 
Eoncher,  was  not  finished.  The  face  was  beautiful, 
but  the  painter  had  not  yet  been  able  to  shed  over  it 
the  divine  sentiment  which  constitutes  the  chami  of 
euch  a  work.  He  hoped,  he  despaired,  he  medi- 
tated and  gazed  at  Rosina ;  in  a  word  he  was,  at 
that  fatal  barrier,  the  barrier  of  genius,  where  all 
talent  which  is  not  genius  must  pause,  and  which, 
now  and  then,  some  who  have  the  courage  to  make 
the  attempt  may  perchance  succeed  in  sunnounting. 
His  lo\  e  for  art,  or  for  Kosina,  had  not  been  able  to 
raise  TJouclier  beyond  this.  Ilisbiblical  feeling  had  not 
detached  him  from  this  lower  world  ;  while  adoring  the 
virgin  ^hwy  in  Rosina,  he  also,  profane  man,  adored 
a  new  mistress.  His  conversion  was  not  sincere. 
lie  hesitated  between  the  divine  love  which  looks  to 
the  future,  and  the  terrestrial  love  which  regards  the 
]>ast;  between  that  severe  foi-m  of  art  which  affects 
by  its  sublimity,  and  that  pleasing  form  which 
charms  In'  its  grace.  He  had  advanced  thus  far 
wliiMi  a  new  jiersoiiage  a]>peared  to  change  the  cur- 
rent of  his  thoughts. 

It  wius  fifteen  days  since  Rosina  had  coimncnccd 
her  sittings.     It  was  but  two  since,  at  a  glance  IVoiu 

26* 


3t)<>  BOLCIIKK. 

the  yomig-  giH,  the  painter  liacl  dropped  his  pencil. 
It  was  al^out  t^leven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Bouchei 
was  preparing  his  palette,  Rosina  loosening  her  hair. 
There  was  a  ring  at  the  door  of  tlie  stndio.  Ilusina 
went  and  opened  it,  as  if  she  had  belonged  to  tlie 
lionse.  "  Monsieur  Boucher?"  incpiired  a  young  girl, 
who  hlushingly  crossed  the  tlireshold.  "What  can 
I  do  for  you  ?"  said  Boucher,  glancing  at  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  young  girl  in  a  mirror.  He  approached 
to  meet  her.  "Monsieur  Boucher,  I  am  a  poor 
girl  witliout  bread.  If  my  motlier  was  not  sick  and 
destitute  of  everything,  I  could  succeed  in  gaining  a 
livelihood  by  my  needle ;  but  for  the  sake  of  my 
mother,  1  have  resigned  myself  to  becoming  a 
model.  I  have  been  told  that  I  have  a  pretty  hand 
and  a  passable  face.  Look,  monsieur,  do  you  think 
that  I  would  do  for  a  model  ?" 

The  stranger  uttered  all  tliis  with  an  air  of  vague 
anxiety  ;  but  what  especially  struck  the  painter  while 
she  was  speaking,  was  her  coquettish  and  seductive 
beauty.  Farewell  to  the  Bible,  farewell  to  Rosina, 
farewell  to  all  simple  and  sublime  love.  The  new- 
comer appeared  to  Boucher  as  the  embodiment  of 
all  his  previous  reveries.  It  was  this  very  Muse,  less 
beautiful  tlian  pretty,  less  striking  than  graceful,  that 
lie  ha<l  so  ardently  sought  for.  There  was  something 
in  her  face  which  belonged  partly  to  heaven  and 
partly  to  the  opera,  a  trace  of  divinity  such  as  might 
be  found  in  a  fallen  angel,  something  which  acta 
upon  the  heart  and  the  lips  at  tlie  same  time,  in 
line,  a  certain  something  which  I  can  not  describe, 
which  charms  and  intoxicates  without  elevating  the 
soul  to  the  splendors  of  lofty  meditation.     She  was 


A   MODEL   FOR   THE   VIKOIN.  807 

dressed  as  a  poor  girl,  which  contrasted  somewhat 
with  the  delicacy  of  her  featiu'es  and  movements. 
Boucher,  althcaigh  no  bad  physiognomist,  did  not 
discover  any  art  or  study  in  this  beauty,  she  masked 
both  by  an  air  of  lofty  innocence.  He  allowed  him- 
self to  be  captivated.  "Who  will  be  astonished  at  it 
who  recollects  that  he  fancied  that  he  had  found  na- 
ture in  the  studio  of  Lamoine  or  at  the  opera  ?  Rosina 
was  his  first  serious  lesson  —  it  was  Nature  in  all 
her  true  and  simple  majesty.  But  the  instincts  of  the 
painter,  deceptive  and  vitiated,  conld  not  rise  to  its 
height.  On  beholding  the  face  of  the  stranger,  he 
seemed  to  see  the  face  of  an  acquaintance,  a  face 
which  he  had  seen  in  another  country,  or  in  another 
world.  He  therefore,  notwithstanding  her  mean  at- 
tire, received  her  as  a  friend.  "  How,  mademoiselle," 
said  he  to  her,  with  an  admiring  look ;  "  You  say 
thjit  you  are  tolerably  beautiful  ?  Say  rather,  in- 
tensely." —  "  Kot  at  all,"  said  she,  with  the  sweetest 
smile  in  the  world.  "Beally,  mademoiselle,  you 
have  come  most  opportunely.  I  was  in  search  of  a 
beautiful  expression  for  the  head  of  the  Virgin ;  per- 
hai)S  I  shall  find  it  in  youre.  Incline  your  head  a 
little  on  your  bosom.  Put  your  hand  on  this  arm- 
cliair.     Ilosina  draw  aside  the  red  cui-tain." 

Boucher  did  not  notice  the  tearful  glance  cast  on 
him  by  the  young  girl.  She  silently  obeyed,  wdiile 
she  asked  herself  if  she  was  no  longer  fit  for  any- 
thing but  to  draw  the  curtain.  She  went  and  sat 
down  in  a  corner  of  the  studio,  to  observe  at  her 
ease,  and  without  being  seen,  her  who  had  come  to 
disturb  lier  ha])j)iness.  But  scarce  was  she  seated 
on  the  divan,  when  Boucher,  who  liked  solitude  with 


308  BODCIIKR. 

two,  recommended  her  to  i-eturn  to  Lcr  mother,  al 
the  sume  time  enjoiiiiiii::  upon  her  to  come  early  the 
next  day.  Slie  Avent  without  savinuj  a  word,  witli 
death  at  her  heart,  foreseeing  that  she  would  he  for- 
gotten for  her  who  remained  tete-a-tete  with  lier 
lover.  She  dried  her  tears  at  tlie  foot  of  tlie  staircase. 
*'  Alas !  what  will  my  mother  say  when  she  sees 
me  so  sad  ?■'  She  walked  about  the  streets  to  give 
lior  sadness  time  to  disappear.  "  Besides,"  slie  con- 
tinued, "  by  waiting  a  little  I  shall  see  her  come  out. 
I  shall  be  able  to  discover  what  is  passing  in  her 
heart." 

She  waited.  More  than  an  hour  passed  away. 
The  model  was  sittino-  in  y;ood  earnest.  .l>oucher 
spoiled  his  beautiful  Virgin,  to  the  fullness  of  his 
bent,  by  endeavoring  to  nnite  in  it  two  styles  of 
character.  The  stranger  at  last  came  out  with  an 
embarrassed  air,  as  if  she  had  committed  a  bad  ac- 
tion. It  had  rained  in  the  morning,  and  the  street 
was  almost  impracticable  for  pretty  feet.  She  slip]K'd 
along  as  lig-ht  as  a  cat  in  the  direction  of  the  Palais 
Royal.  She  stopi)ed  at  a  house  of  poor  appearance, 
gave  a  crown  to  the  porter,  cast  her  eyes  about  her 
suspiciously,  and  disappeared  within  the  portal. 
Rosina  had  followed  her.  On  seeing  her  disa})puar, 
she  examined  the  house,  and,  not  daring  to  push  her 
curiosity  any  further,  resolved  also  to  return  home. 
An  invisible  hand,  however,  retained  her  in  spite  of 
herself  She  must  needs  spy  at  all  the  windows  of 
the  house.  She  had  a  presentiment  that  she  should 
see  the  unknown  one  again.  All  of  a  sudden,  to  her 
gieat  smi^rise,  she  fancied  that  she  recognised  her 
in  some  one  who  was  going  out  in  an  entirely  different 


THE    MODEL    UNMxVSKED.  309 

costume.  This  time  the  young  girl  was  dressed  as  a 
fine  lady,  in  a  taifeta  robe,  with  a  train,  the  end  of  wliich 
she  strove  to  thrust  into  her  pocket,  a  mantilla,  red 
heels,  all  the  accessories.  '•  Where  can  she  be  going  in 
that  dress?-'  Ilosina  asked  herself,  as  she  followed 
her  almost  step  by  step.  The  lady  went  straight  to 
a  gilded  carriage,  which  was  waiting  for  her  before  the 
Palais  Roval.  A  lacker  rushed  before  her  to  oiien 
the  door.  She  quickly  stepped  into  the  carriage  with 
the  air  of  one  accustomed  to  do  so  every  day.  "  I  sus- 
pected it,"  muttered  Rosina;  "  there  w'as  an  indescri- 
bable something  in  her  manner,  her  mode  of  speech, 
the  softened  pride  of  her  glance,  which  surprised 
me.  There  is  no  use  for  her  to  assume  all  sorts  of 
masks,  she  will  be  found  out  in  the  end.  Alas  !  I 
wonder  if  he  found  her  out !" 

The  next  day  Rosina,  purposely,  came  a  little  late. 
lie  did  not  utter,  however,  on  seeing  her  that  sweet 
jihrase  which  consoles  the  absent  for  absence,  whether 
IVom  hearth  or  heart:  "  I  was  waiting  for  you." — ■ 
'•"Well,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  "you  say  nothing 
to  me  about  your  fine  lady." — "  My  fine  lady  !  I  do 
not  understand." — "So  you  did  not  find  her  out? 
She  was  not  a  poor  girl,  as  she  said,  l)nt  a  fine  lady 
who  lias  not  much  to  do.  I  saw  her  get  into  her 
carriage.  Oh  I  such  a  carriage,  such  horses,  such  a 
footman  !" — "  What  do  von  sav  !  You  are  tryina'  to 
deceive  me:  it  is  a  falsehood." — "It  is  the  truth. 
Now  do  you  believe  in  those  fine  airs  of  iimo- 
cence?" — "  What  a  singular  adventure!"  said  Vnm- 
cher,  passing  liis  hand  over  his  forehead  :  "  will  she 
come  back?"  At  this  moment  Ilosina  went  and 
rested   her  joined  hands  on  the  painter's  shoulder. 


310  BOUCHER. 

"She  cUfl  not  ask  yon  for  anytliing?"  said  slie,  with 
a  nionniful,  but  clKirnuno;  expression.  Boucher  kissed 
<]\e  forehead  of  his  mistress  as  it  was  bent  over  liiin. 
'"  Nothing  except  a  crown  as  the  price  of  the  sittin<r : 
it  is  an  eniaina  :  I  can  not  make  it  out," — "  Ahas,  she 
will  return." — "  "Who  knows  ?  she  was  to  do  so  tliis 
mornincr." — "  I  shall  take  ffood  care  to-day  not  to 
open  the  door." — "  AVhy  not?  what  folly  !  Are  yo\i 
beirinninc:  to  be  iealous  ?" — "You  are  very  cruel! 
Will  you  open  the  door  yourself?" — "Yes."  Eosina 
drew  back  with  a  sigh,  "Then,"  said  she,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  "  the  door  shall  close  on  me." 

Rosina,  weeping  with  love  and  jealousy,  was  of 
adorable  beauty ;  but  Boucher,  unfortunately  for 
himself,  thought  only  of  the  mysterious  stranger, 
"Rosina,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying;  you 
are  foolish."  Boucher  had  spoken  somewhat  harsh- 
ly :  the  poor  girl  went  toward  the  door,  and  in  a 
feeble  voice  murmured  a  sad  farewell.  She,  doubt- 
less, hoped  that  he  would  not  let  her  go,  that  he 
would  catch  her  in  his  arms,  and  console  her  with  a 
kiss;  but  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind  :  he  forgot,  the 
ingrate,  that  Rosina  was  not  an  opera-girl :  he  thought 
that  she  was  making  helieve^  like  all  the  actresses, 
without  heart  or  faith.  Rosina  did  not  make  be- 
lieve, she  listened  to  her  naive  and  simple  nature ; 
she  had  given  all  which  she  could  give,  more  than 
her  heart,  than  her  soul ;  it  was  not  surprising  that 
she  should  revolt  at  being  loved  so  lightly,  as  if  by 
mere  chance.  She  opened  the  door,  turned  toward 
Boucher;  a  single  tender  look  would  have  brought 
her  to  his  foet;  he  contented  himself  with  saying 
to  her,  as  he  would  to  the  iirst  chance-comer,  "  Do  n't 


HIS    LAST   SIGHT    OF    ROSINA.  311 

put  on  SO  many  airs."  These  words  made  Rosina 
indignant.  "  It  is  all  over  !'•  said  she.  At  the  same 
moment  she  closed  the  door.  Tiie  sound  of  her 
steps  went  to  Boucher's  heart.  He  would  have 
mshed  to  the  stairs,  but  he  stopped  himself  with  the 
idea  that  she  would  come  hack.  Another  woidd 
have  done  so,  Rosina  did  not.  With  her  Boucher 
lost  all  hope  of  real  talent.  Tnith  had  visited  him 
in  all  her  force,  her  sublimity,  and  her  beauty.  He 
could  not  rise  to  her  level.  He  set  to  work  to  search 
out  the  mysteiious  pereonage  who  so  poetically  per- 
sonified his  Muse. 

In  vain  did  he  ransack  the  fashionable  world,  in 
company  with  Pont-de-Veyle  and  the  Count  de 
Caylu.s.  He  was  at  all  the  fetes  and  amusements, 
at  all  the  promenades  and  all  the  suppere  :  but  he 
could  not  find  her  whom  he  souii^ht  with  such  in- 
fatuated  ardor.  Rosina  was  not  completely  banished 
from  his  mind  ;  but  the  poor  girl  never  appeared  by 
herself  in  his  reminiscences,  he  always  beheld  her 
imajre  bv  the  side  of  that  of  the  unknown  lad  v.  One 
dav,  however,  as  he  was  lookinij;  at  his  unfinished  Yi?'- 
(//'/I.  he  felt  that  Rosina  was  still  in  his  heart.  He  re- 
proached himself  for  having  abandoned  her.  He  re- 
solved to  go  forthwith  and  tell  her  that  he  loved  and 
alwavs  had  loved  her.  He  went  down  stairs,  and 
turned  toward  the  Rue  St.  Anne,  making  his  way 
through  a  crowd  of  carriages  and  hacks.  A  young 
gill  ])assed  along  the  other  side  of  the  street,  with  a 
basket  in  her  hand.  He  recognised  Rosina.  Alas  ! 
it  was  but  the  shadow  of  Rosina  :  gnef  had  made 
sad  havoc  with  her  charms ;  descilion  had  crushed 
lier  with  its  icy  haixl.     lie  was  about  crossing  the 


0 


12  BOUCHER. 


street,  to  join  her,  when  a  carriage  jjassing  prevcntea 
his  doing  so.  A  woman  put  her  head  out  of  the 
window. —  "It  is  she!"  he  exclaimed,  completely 
overcome,  lie  forgot  R.osina,  and  followed  the  car- 
riage, ready  for  whatever  might  happen.  The  car- 
riage led  him  to  a  mansion  in  the  Kue  St.  Dominique. 
The  painter  boldly  presented  himself  half  an  hour 
afterward.  He  was  received  by  the  husband  Avith 
every  mark  of  attention. — "I  think,  Monsieur  Count, 
that  I  have  heard  it  said  that  Madame  the  Coimtess 
would  not  disdain  to  have  her  portrait  taken  by  my 
[)encil." — "She  has  not  said  a  word  about  it  to  me; 
but  I  will  conduct  you  to  her  oratory." — Bold  as  he 
was,  Boucher  almost  wished  himself  home  again ; 
but,  as  it  was  as  embarrassing  to  beat  a  retreat  with- 
out any  apparent  reason,  as  to  face  the  danger,  he 
suffered  himself  to  be  led  to  the  oratory. 

It  was  she,  the  poor  girl  without  bread.  She  ti)ld 
Boucher  that  curiosity,  coml)ined  with  a  little  euiuii, 
had  led  her  to  his  studio,  to  obtain  an  opinion  on  her 
beauty,  once  for  all,  by  a  competent  judge,  who 
would  have  no  reason  for  telling  an  untruth. — "  I 
once  paid  you  for  a  sitting,"  said  Boucher,  j)as3ion- 
ately,  "  it  is  now  your  turn  to  pay  me  for  one." — It  was 
decided  that  he  should  take  the  countess's  portrait; 
it  was  never  brought  to  completion,  so  much  delight 
did  Boucher  take  in  his  task. 

After  the  intoxication  of  this  passion  was  abated, 
the  young  girl  whom  he  had  forsaken  returned  to 
Boucher's  mind.  On  looking  at  his  Virgin,  in 
which  the  profane  artist  had  mingled  his  impressions 
of  the  two  beauties,  he  saw  clearly  that  Rosina  was 
the  most  beautiful.     The  countess  had  enticed  him 


DEATH    OF   ROSINA.  815 

with  the  greatest  power,  but  the  charm  was  dispelled. 
He  again  discovered  that  Kosina  possessed  that  ideal 
beauty  which  ravishes  lovei^s  and  gives  genius  to 
painters. — "Yes,"  said  he,  regretfullj,  "I  deceived 
myself  like  a  child  !  the  divine  and  human  beauty, 
the  true  light,  the  heavenly  sentiment,  belonged  to 
Rosina ;  the  seductiveness,  the  falsehood,  that  ex- 
pression which  comes  neither  from  the  heart  noi 
from  Heaven  the  countess  possessed.  I  spoilt  my 
Virgin^  like  a  fool ;  but  there  is  still  time." — There 
was  not !  He  ran  to  the  fruiterer's ;  he  asked  for 
Kosina. — -"She  is  dead,"  said  her  mother  to  him. — 
"  Dead  I"  exclaimed  Boucher,  pale  with  despair. — 
"Yes,  Monsieur  Artist.  She  died  as  those  who  die 
at  sixteen,  of  love.  I  only  speak  from  hearsay ;  but 
she  acknowledged  to  an  aunt,  who  watched  by  her 
in  her  last  moments,  that  she  was  dying  of  a  broken 
heart,  from  having  loved  too  much !  By  the  way, 
you  forgot  to  take  my  portrait.  Hers,  too?  I 
have  not  thought  any  more  about  it." — "  It  is  not 
tiiiislied,"  said  the  i)ainter,  gasping  for  breath. 

Returning  to  his  studio,  he  al)aiKloned  himself  to 
grief;  he  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  the  un- 
finished Virgin  I  he  cursed  the  fatal  passion  which 
had  drawn  him  away  from  Rosina;  he  swore  to  de- 
vote himself  thenceforth  to  the  holy  memory  of  this 
sister  of  the  anfjels.  After  havinfir  mourned  for  an 
hour,  he  was  seized,  as  by  a  sudden  ins])iration,  with 
a  desire  to  i-etouch  his  figure  of  the  Virgin. — "Xo, 
no!"  exclaimed  he,  vehemently,  "in  effacing  what  I 
owe  to  the  Cf)nntess,  shall  I  not  also  destroy  this 
divine  ti-ace  of  my  poor  Tiosina?" — He  removed 
the  canvass  from  the  easel,  bore  it  with  a  trembling 


314  BOUCHER. 

hand  to  the  otlier  end  of  the  studio,  and  hung  it 
over  the  sofa  on  which  Rosina  had  seated  herself  for 
the  hist  time  in  his  sight.  He  did  not  confide  his 
grief  but  to  three  or  four  friends,  such  as  the  Count 
dc  Cayhis,  Pont-de-Yeyle,  and  Duclos.  Whenever 
the  unfinished  Virgin  was  noticed  in  his  room,  he 
contented  himself  with  saying,  "Do  not  speak  to  me 
of  that,  for  you  will  remind  me  that  my  time  for 
genius  has  passed." 

In  those  fine  times,  no  one,  unless  it  was  a  Rosina, 
died  of  grief  They  consoled  themselves  for  every- 
thing; Buucher  consoled  himself.  lie  threw  him- 
self witli  still  greater  recklessness  into  all  the  follies 
of  a  worldly  life.  He  had  turned  his  back  on  a 
woman  such  as  God  created;  he  did  the  same  to  the 
landscape  that  expanded  beneath  the  sun.  Bouclier 
dispensed  with  Nature.  One  day,  when  in  a  rational 
mood  (it  was  but  a  deceptive  glimmer),  he  left 
Paris  for  the  first  time  since  his  childhood.  Where 
did  he  go?  he  has  not  said  ;  but,  according  to  a  letter 
written  to  Lancret,  he  found  Nature  very  disagree- 
able—  too  green,  badly  managed  as  to  light!  Is  it 
not  amufiing  to  see  an  artist  of  Boucher's  calibre 
finding  fault  Avith  the  work  of  the  great  artist  of  light 
and  color?  Raphael  and  Micliael  Angelo  were  well 
avenged  in  advance,  for,  as  you  will  see  directly, 
Boucher  was  not  at  the  end  of  his  criticisms.  What 
is  still  more  amuiing,  Lancret  answered  Boucher 
thus :  "  I  agree  with  you.  Nature  is  wanting  in 
harmony  and  attractiveness." — I  can  fancy  to  my- 
self Boucher  in  the  midst  of  a  fine,  but  somewhat 
wild  country,  trying  to  understand,  but  under- 
standing nothing  of  the  great  spectacle  worthy  of 


HIS  sTxroio.  315 

Gud  himself;  hearing  nothing  of  all  those  hymns  of 
love  which  Nature  raises  to  Heaven,  in  the  voice  of 
rivers,  of  forests,  of  lairds,  and  of  humanity ;  seeing 
naught  of  that  divine  harmony,  in  which  are  blended 
the  hand  of  God,  and  the  hand  of  man,  the  hand 
which  creates  and  the  hand  which  labors.  In  the 
midst  of  all  these  marvels,  Boucher  kept  on  his 
way.  like  an  exile  who  treads  a  foreign  land.  He 
sought  his  gods. — •' AYhere  is  Pan?  AYliere  is  Nar- 
cissus? Where  is  Diana,  tlie  huntress?" — He  called ; 
lume  answered,  not  even  Echo.  He  sought  for  those 
mortals  who  were  familiar  to  him  ;  but  wliere  were 
those  pretty  and  g'dWixnt fetes  chwnpetres  to  be  found? 
He  could  not  even  find  a  shepherdess  in  the  meadow. 
He  was  doubtless  overcome  with  joy  on  re-entering 
]jis  studio,  to  return  to  his  pretty  rosy  landscapes, 
over  wliich  were  sjiread  the  enchantments  of  fairy- 
land. He  was  surnamed  the  painter  of  fairies  with 
good  cause,  for  he  lived,  loved,  and  painted,  only  in 
the  world  of  fairies. 

After  these  two  decisive  checks,  Boucher  aban- 
doned himself  more  than  ever  to  the  frolicsome 
coquetry  and  mannered  grace  habitual  to  him.  His 
studio  again  became  a  boudoir,  much  haunted  by 
actresses.  He  was  not  twenty-six,  but  was  every- 
M'here  in  demand,  at  first  on  account  of  liis  talents, 
afterward  lor  his  pleasant  manners.  The  academi- 
cians alone  rejected  him,  because  he  had  the  haughty 
bearing  of  a  gentleman,  ;iiid  because  h(>  lauglied 
Ronu'wlijit  at  their  gravity;  ])crha]ts,  also,  because  he 
ridiculed  art  u  little.  But  who  were,  then,  the  acade- 
micians? Had  they  the  right,  except  it  was  Jean 
Laptinte  Vaiilo.>  und  Boulr)gne,  to  reject  Boucher  j 


316  .  BOUCHER. 

In  the  eyes  of  all  reasonable  judges,  lie  gained  the 
Roman  prize.  However,  the  Academy  did  not  so 
decide.  Nevertheless,  he  set  out  for  Rome ;  the 
third  and  last  attempt  to  find  art  and  nature;  but  he 
put  the  Academy  in  the  rigiit,  fur  he  wasted  liis  time 
in  the  City  of  the  Arts.  He  pronounced  Ra])hael 
insipid  and  Michael  Angelo  an  artist  of  deformity! 
Forgive  him  for  his  profanity  or  his  blindness!  Crit- 
icism on  God  might  i)ass ;  but  on  Raphael !  on 
Michael  Ano-elo! 

Boucher  had  left  for  Rome  with  Carle  Vanloo;  he 
returned  alone,  without  money  or  studies,  denying 
the  merit  of  all  the  masterjiieces.  What  could  one 
then  augur  of  such  a  painter?  He  was  not,  however, 
despaired  of.  —  "His  talent  has  mined  him,  his 
talent  will  save  him,"  said  the  Count  de  Caylus,  a 
just  and  profound  remark,  which  well  descrilies 
Boucher's  talent.  In  proof  of  this,  he  was  scarcely 
back  again  when  he  became  all  the  fashion  ;  he  had 
only  to  paint,  to  give  applause.  All  the  great  man- 
sions, all  the  splendid  country-seats  were  thrown 
open  to  his  graceful  talents.  He  worked  day  and 
night,  amusing  himself  at  the  expense  of  everybody, 
including  himself,  producing,  as  by  magic,  Venuses 
in  angelic  choirs  and  angels  equipped  with  arrows. 
He  had  no  time  to  be  very  particular.  He  went 
on  and  on  as  rapid  as  the  wind,  tinishing  on  the 
same  day  a  Visitation  for  St.  Germain  des  Pres, 
a  Yenus  at  Cythera  for  Versailles,  a  design  for  an 
opera-scene,  a  portrait  of  a  duchess,  and  a  painting 
of  scandalous  design,  by  turns  inspired  by  heaven 
and  hell,  no  longer  believing  in  glory,  giving  himself 
up,  body  and  soul,  to  making  a  fortune.    During  the 


STYLE    OF   LITE.  817 

remainder  of  liis  life,  he  made  every  year  not  less 
than  fifty  thousand  livres,  equivalent  to  a  hundred 
thousand  at  the  present  day.  He  lived  in  grand 
style ;  he  lived  beyond  his  income ;  he  affected  the 
philosophy  of  the  time ;  he  ridiculed  all  that  was 
noble  and  grand ;  he  doubted  God,  and  all  that  comes 
to  US  from  him,  the  virtue  of  the  heart,  the  aspira- 
tions of  the  soul.  He  gave  regal  fetes,  one  among 
others  which  cost  him  a  year's  work,  a  celebrated 
festival,  called  the  festival  of  the  gods.  His  design  was 
to  represent  Olympus,  and  all  the  pagan  divinities. 
He  himself  was  Jupiter ;  his  mistress,  disguised  as 
Hebe,  that  is  to  say,  in  very  scanty  garments,  passed 
the  night  in  serving  ambrosia  to  all  these  counterfeit 
gods  and  goddesses.  The  Academicians,  astounded 
at  these  achievements,  determined  upon  admitting 
Boucher,  the  noisy  fame  of  whose  school  had  thrown 
the  Academy  into  the  shade.  Boucher  was  no  more 
of  an  Academician  after  he  had  the  title  than  before. 
He  continued  to  live  as  a  prodigal,  and  paint  as  an 
artist  without  faith. 

He  did  not  content  himself  with  painting,  l)ut  en- 
graved and  modelled  also ;  he  engraved  a  large 
number  of  Watteau's  designs;  he  modelled,  on  a 
small  scale,  groups  and  dancing-girls,  for  the  manu- 
factory at  Sevres.  His  engravings  and  niDdcllings 
are  worthy  of  his  best  pictures ;  the}'  possess  the 
same  grace,  the  same  spirit,  and  the  same  smile.  By 
tlniK  multiplying  himself,  Boucher  extended  his  rejtu- 
tation  evciy where  ;  you  might  see  at  the  same  time 
liis  ])lunip  C'lqildx  on  mantel-jtieces,  liis  Nymjjhi^i  on 
watches,  liis  engravings  in  books,  his  pictures  on  all 
the  walls.    As  lioucher  did  not  sell  his  works  at  hi<rh 

27* 


318  BOUCHEK. 

prices,  he  owed  bis  large  income  to  his  prodigious 
thcilirv.  Madiinie  GeoltViii  bought  two  of  bis  pret- 
tiest pictures,  for  the  sum  of  two  thousand  crowns, 
and  they  were  not  bis  worst-paid  pictures.  The 
empress  of  llussia  bought  them  from  Madame 
Geort'rin,  for  thirty  thousand  livres.  Madame  Geof- 
frin  went  as  fast  as  she  could  after  Boucher,  and 
said  to  him :  "  I  have  often  told  you  that  pictures 
bear  high  interest  in  my  bands;  here  are  twenty- 
four  tliousand  livres  which  accrue  to  you  for  yom* 
Aurora  and  ThetisP — It  was  not  the  first  time 
tiuit  good  Madame  Geolirin  bad  engaged  in  this 
kind  of  trade.  kShe  had  begun  it  w^ith  Carle  Vanloo. 
Soon  after  bis  return  frona  Rome,  he  fell  m  love 
with  a  young  girl  of  a  citizen  family,  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  women  in  France — perhaps  the  most 
beautiful.  Her  portrait  is  at  Yersailles ;  Ilaoux 
has  represented  her  as  a  Vestal.  You  may  see 
her,  feeding  the  sacred  flame  —  the  sacred  flame 
of  whom?  Not  of  Boucher  or  of  herself;  for,  if 
there  is  flame  anywhere  in  the  picture,  it  is  in 
the  Vestal's  glances.  Boucher  was  so  desperately 
in  love  with  her,  that  despairing  of  obtaining  what 
he  wanted  in  any  other  manner,  be  resigned  him- 
self to  submit  to  nuirriage,  although,  as  he  facetiously 
remarked,  "marriage  was  not  habitual  with  him." 
Having  become  his  wife,  she  often  sat  for  his  Virgins 
and  Venuses ;  you  may  recognise  her  here  and 
there  in  Boucher's  works.  AVhat,  however,  was 
more  worthy  of  him  and  of  herself,  was  that  she 
presented  him  with  two  charming  daughters,  who 
appear  to  have  modelled  themselves  after  the  most 
blooming  and  beautiful  of  the  painter's  forms.     She 


AS   ARTIST,  319 

died  at  twenty-four,  "too  beautiful,"  said  the  in- 
consolable Boucher,  "  to  live  lono;  in  the  atmosphere 
of  Paris." 

Less  than  seventeen  years  after  his  marriap,!;,  Bou- 
cher married  his  dauo;hters  to  two  painters,  who  were 
not  of  his  school,  Deshays,  who  almost  possessed 
genius,  and  Baudouin,  who  would  have  been  the 
La  Fontaine  of  paintino;  if  he  had  relied  entirely  on 
simplicity.  Madame  Boucher  and  her  two  dauiih- 
tei"s  passed  their  lives  amid  the  splendors  of  the 
world  and  amid  tears.  Charmino;  and  beautiful  as 
they  were,  they  often  found  themselves  neglected 
for  opera-girls,  or  other  chance-comers.  Boucher, 
Deshays,  and  Boudouin,  had  tasted  the  bitter  grapes 
of  evil  passion.  They  were  but  momentarily  sensible 
of  the  grace  and  virtue  of  a  wife ;  the  chaste  fra- 
grance of  the  household  fireside  could  not  charm  their 
liearts ;  a  niore  exciting  intoxication  was  needful  to 
these  abandoned  souls,  a  cup  less  ])ure  for  their  jxjI- 
luted  lips.  The  arabiosial  locks  of  the  spouse  were 
not  suilicient  to  enchain  their  love.  They  sought  for 
lascivious  embraces,  deadly  caresses,  all  the  galling 
chains  of  voluptuousness.  They  all  three  died  about 
the  same  time,  within  the  space  of  a  year  —  the 
youngest  first,  Boucher  the  last,  after  having  been  a 
witness  to  the  despair  of  his  com])anions.  Deshays 
was,  jierhaps,  tlie  only  gi-eat  j)aintcr  after  Lesueur. 
He  had,  in  1750,  a  feeling  for  beauty  and  grandeur. 
Accordingly,  Boucher,  who  was  a  man  of  good  sense 
sometimes,  seeing  such  a  pui>il  in  his  studio,  took 
good  care  not  to  give  liim  instructinn.  lie  contented 
himself  with  giving  him  his  daughter,  saying  humo- 
rously "Study  with  her."     A>  tor  jhiudouin,  lie  wjis 


320  BOrCHER. 

Greuze  and  Boucher  in  miniature ;  or,  according  to 
Diderot,  "  a  jumble  of  Fontenelle  and  Theocritus." 

Boucher,  thei'efore,  ])ursued  his  career  in  the  same 
fatal  directio:).  in  whicli  lie  had  lost  himself  while 
following  his  master's  path.     In  spite  of  the  money 
lie  made,  and  the  vain-glory  which  each  day  brought 
him,  he  was  never  hap])y,  he  never  enjoyed  the  con- 
sciousness of  possessing  heart  or  talent.    He  was  but 
too  conscious  of  his  faults  as  a  man  and  as  a  painter. 
He  knew  that  he  was  wasting  away  in  vain  sparks 
the  little  sacred  fire  which  Heaven  had  lit  in  his 
soul  during  the  fine  da^'s  of  his  youth.     He  foresaw 
that  his  works  would  perish  with  liim.     To  distract 
his  mind  from   such   melancholy  thoughts,  he   ex- 
hausted all  kinds  of  dissipation.     Toward  the  emd  of 
his  life,  he  made  some  approach  toward  Nature.    He 
built,  by  way  of  an  amende  honorahle^  a  kind  of 
temple  to  her ;  that  is  to  say,  a  Cabinet  of  Natural 
Hist(^ry,  in  which  Buffon  more  than  once  studied. 
At  his  death  this  cabinet  was  sold   for  a  hundred 
thousand  livres.   It  was  all  that  Boucher  left  of  a 
great  fortune.     "It  was,''  he  said,  "  to'i^ay  for  his 
funeral."' 

He  went  incessantly  into  society.  Madame  Geof- 
frin,  who  had  succeeded  to  Madame  de  Tencin's 
circle,  gave  two  dinners  a  week,  on  Monday  to  ailists, 
and  "Wednesday  to  men  of  letters.  Marmontel,  who 
dined  rarely  then,  except  when  he  dined  out,  was  at 
Madame  Geoffrin's  table  on  both  Mondays  and 
Wednesdays.  In  his  memoirs  he  passes  the  guests 
in  review.  He  says,  in  reference  to  the  artists  :  "I 
was  at  no  loss  to  perceive  that,  with  natural  ability, 
they  were  almost  all  deficient  in  study  and  culture- 


VANI.OO,    VERNET,    LATODR,    ETC.  321 

Good  Carle  Yanloo  possessed,  in  a  high  degree,  all 
the  talent  that  a  painter  can  have  without  genius  ; 
but  lie  was  without  inspiration,  and  to  make  up  for 
if,  he  had  devoted  liimself  but  little  to  those  studies 
which  raise  the  soul  and  till  the  ima2:ination  M'ith 
great  objects  and  great  thoughts.  Vernet,  admirable 
in  the  art  of  painting  water,  the  air,  the  light,  and 
tb.e  action  of  these  elements,  had  all  the  models  of 
compositions  of  this  class  very  vividly  present  to  his 
iuniginatiun  ;  but  beyond  this,  although  he  has  some 
spii'it,  he  was  a  commonplace  artist.  Lat<»ur  pos- 
sessed enthusiasm  ;  l)ut,  his  head  already  coniiised 
with  tlie  political  and  moral  questions  on  which  he 
fancied  that  he  could  argue  ably,  he  thought  himself 
humiliated  if  any  one  spoke  to  him  about  painting. 
If  lit!  took  my  ])ortrait,  it  was  only  on  account  of  the 
ciiiiij;laisance  with  which  I  listened  to  him  as  he  reg- 
ulated the  destinies  of  Europe.  Boucher  had  some 
tire  of  imagination,  but  little  truth,  still  less  dignity. 
He  had  not  seen  the  graces  in  respectable  company. 
Jle  painted  Venus  and  the  Virgin  after  the  nymphs 
of  the  green-room,  and  his  language,  as  well  as  his 
jjictures,  reminded  one  of  the  manners  of  his  models 
and  of  the  tone  of  his  studio." 

Madame  de  Pompadour  and  Madame  Dubarry 
both  admired  Boucher's  talents.  What  was  more 
luitural  ?  Did  he  not  seem  made  expressly  to  paint 
these  queens  by  chance  'i  Were  they  not  two  of 
those  muses  whence  he  derived  inspiration  ?  Had 
they  not  the  coquettish  grace,  the  wayward  glance, 
and  the  smiling  lijts,  whicli  make  up  the  charm  ot 
Uoucher's  woiricn  ? 

Jlf  b('c;iiiH'  first  paiiiln-  tn  tlic  kiiii^-  on    the   death 


322  BOUCHER. 

of  Carle  Yanloo.  His  elevation  to  the  dignity  sur- 
prised no  one.  Nothing  caused  astonishment  then, 
wlien  Madame  Dubarry  was  seated  on  the  throne  of 
Blanche  of  Castile.  Besides,  as  the  king,  such  the 
]>ainter.  Louis  XIV".  and  Lebrun,  Louis  XV.  and 
Boucher,  had  they  not  the  same  kind  of  dignity  ? 

Of  all  this  generation,  crowned  with  faded  roses, 
Boucher  was  the  tirst  to  die,  in  the  spring  of  1770, 
with  his  pencil  in  hand,  although  he  had  been  ill  for 
a  'ong  time.  He  was  alone  in  his  studio.  One  of 
his  pupils  wished  to  enter.  "  Do  n't  come  in,"  said 
Boucher,  who,  perhaps,  felt  that  he  was  dying.  The 
pupil  closed  the  door  and  witlidrew.  An  hour  after, 
Francis  Boucher,  the  paintei-,  was  found  exjMring 
bef(  )re  a  picture  of  Yenus  at  her  toilet. 

He  led  the  way.  All  tiie  painters,  the  abbes,  the 
poets  of  gallantry,  soon  followed  him  to  the  dark 
mansion  of  the  dead,  the  king  of  France  at  their 
head,  supported  by  his  reader  in  ordinary,  Montcrif, 
who  had  never  read  anything  to  him,  and  by  his  fa- 
mous librarian,  Gentil-Bernard,  who  had  never  turned 
over  anything  but  the  petticoats  of  the  opera.  It 
pleases  my  fancy  to  depict  to  myself  this  half-fune- 
real, half-l>urlesque  spectacle  of  ail  those  men  of  wit, 
wlio  departed  so  gayly,  but  persisted  in  uttering  a 
witty  speech  l^efore  dying,  in  order  to  die  as  they 
had  lived.  In  a  few  years,  all  the  wit,  the  joy,  the 
fascination,  and  the  folly  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
were  seen  to  descend  into  the  tomb.  Without 
speaking  of  Madame  de  Pomj)adoin-,  Boucher,  Louis 
XV.,  and  of  some  celebrated  actresses,  such  as 
Madame  Favart  and  Mademoiselle  Gaussin,  do  we 
not  behold  in  the  mom-nful  procession  Crebillon  and 


TRUE   TO   HIS    AGE.  323 

his  libertine  stories,  Marivaiix  and  his  delicate  com- 
edies, the  Abbe  Pre\  ost  and  liis  dear  Manon,  Panart 
and  his  vaudevilles,  Piron  and  his  jokes,  Dorat  and 
his  madrigals,  the  Abbe  de  Yoisenon  and  the  chil- 
dren of  Favart,  tlie  most  certainly  his  of  all  his 
works?  Who  more?  Rameau,  Helvetius,  Dik-]-)S, 
Yoltaire,  Jean-Jacques  Kousseau.  Are  these  enough  ? 
Who  then  will  remain  to  finish  the  century  ?  The 
queen,  Marie -Antoinette,  will  remain,  wlio  also 
lived  this  mad  life,  wlio  smiled  like  the  women  of 
Boucher,  who  is  destined  to  be  punished  for  all  these 
line  i)ei>ple,  who  is  destined  to  die  on  the  guillotine, 
another  Calvary,  between  a  woman  of  the  town, 
Madame  Dubarry,  and  a  king  of  the  populace,  He- 
beit,  to  die  with  the  dignity  of  Christ,  crowned  with 
her  whitened  locks,  bleached  by  a  night  of  heroic 
penitence. 

The  history  of  Boucher  has  its  logic,  the  life  of 
the  painter  accords  with  his  work ;  there  is  no  more 
truth  in  the  passion  of  the  one  than  in  the  picture 
of  the  other ;  both,  however,  must  be  taken  as  the 
expression  of  an  epoch.  It  is  thus  that  Boucher  has 
survived.  The  fact  of  his  being  true  to  his  time, 
])roves  him  true  in  one  respect,  in  spite  of  all  his 
falsehoods.  His  style  of  painting  has  not  a  positive 
value  in  the  annals  of  art;  it  is  scarcely  an  episode 
of  partial  interest,  it  is  a  degeneracy  of  art.  This 
fiivolous  era  is  lost  between  two  serious  epochs.  The 
eighteenth  century  was  the  prodigal  offspring  of  a 
worthy  and  serious  age.  ]*oucher  is  to  Lesueur  wluit 
Fontenelle  is  to  Comeille.  Affectation  distorted  origi- 
nal chanicter,  wit  destroyed  naturalness,  and  1)eauty 
the  eternal  law  of  art,  becomes  only  a  graceful  caprice. 


324:  BOUCHER. 

Does  "Ronclier  demand  of  ns  any  profound  criti 
cism?  AVhen  we  say  that  l.e  was  the  ])ainter  of 
coquettish  graces,  have  we  not  said  all  ?  On  examin- 
ing his  character  and  his  M'orks  more  closely,  we  can 
nut  venture  thus  to  despatch  him  with  a  single  word. 
Ilis  mind  felt  more  than  one  deep  inspiration,  more 
than  once  was  his  heart  deeply  moved  by  the  remem- 
brance of  Rosina.  Nature  has  eternal  rights  which 
command  our  obedience :  there  is  no  use  in  trying 
to  escape,  she  always  reasserts  her  sway.  Let  us, 
tiierefore,  not  judge  Bouchei"  hastily,  but  turn  over 
his  work  with  a  patient  hand.  Is  there,  then,  noth- 
ing grand  and  nothing  beautiful  bciicatli  those  false 
seductions?  Have  the  light  of  the  sim  and  the  light 
of  art  never  illuminated  those  landscapes  and  those 
faces?     Did  Boucher  never  reach  the  truth  i 

The  grand  gallery  of  the  Louvre  has  not  a  single 
one  of  his  pictures.  It  api)ears  to  me,  however, 
that  he  deserves  a  little  space  in  a  good  light,  be- 
tween his  friends  Watteau  and  Greuze.  Who  would 
comj)lain  of  seeing  what  kiiul  of  pictures  were 
painted  a  century  ago  by  him  who  became  pHinter 
in  chief  to  the  king,  director  of  the  Acadciny,  and 
of  the  Gobelins?  For  th<;)se  who  study  there  would 
be  the  material  for  curious  comparisons ;  for  those 
who  seek  only  for  amusement  there  would,  be  so  many 
pretty  pictures  the  more.  We  have  a  singuhir  mode 
of  being  national  in  France.  We  are  so  hospitable 
to  foreigners  that  there  is  no  room  left  for  the  na- 
tives. For  the  last  few  years,  it  is  true,  an  asylum 
has  been  deigned  Boucher  in  a  badly-lighted  galleiy, 
that  on  the  side  of  the  river,  which  greatly  resembles 
a  cemetery  of  art,  to  judge  by  the  silence  and  soli- 


PAINTINGS.  325 

tilde  wli  ^h  reign  there.  Two  paintings  of  the 
painter  of  Lonis  XY.  are  to  be  found  there ;  the 
first  chapters  of  his  Pastoral  Amours.  Nothing  is 
more  agreeable  to  the  eye.  We  advance,  lost  in 
astonishment:  the  eye  loses  itself  in  tlie  volu2)tnons 
vagueness  of  the  landscape.  We  smile  on  those 
queens  disguised  as  shepherdesses ;  we  detach  our- 
selves from  the  preseut ;  we  follow  those  doves  in 
their  auiorous  flight ;  we  lose  ourselves,  completely 
overcome,  in  those  scented  groves.  Where  are  we? 
On  the  banks  of  i\\Q  Lignon,  or  in  the  paths  of 
Cytherea?  On  the  freshly-grown  grass  of  what 
bloomine;  flowerv  Eden  are  we  treadiu";?  The  dream 
lasts  but  a  moment.  Such  a  terrestrial  paradise 
never  existed  anj^where  ;  such  sliei)herds  never  lived. 
They  are  pale  ghosts  of  Watteau  whom  Ijoucliei-  has 
reanimated  with  roses.  We  soon  M-ithdi-aw  without 
retaining  the  interest  which  had  seized  us  at  first 
sight ;  but  smiling  at  that  air  of  magic  which  Bou- 
cher had  the  art  of  castino;  over  all  his  faults. 

I  have  some  other  paintings  of  Ills  before  me. 
The  fReep  of  the  Bacchantes.,  the  Intoxication  of 
the  Loves.  Jiiinter  carry imj  off'  Europa.,  the  See- 
Sail}.  Mercury  Teaching  Cvjihl  to  Read.,  and  the 
Bafilot  of  Floioers.  This  last  picture  is  the  most 
beautiful :  the  shepherdess,  Astrea,  her  feet  are  bare, 
au<l  Ih'i-!i'('1v»  are  Hoating  in  the  wind,  is  lying  asleep, 
within  rv/o  steps  of  a  fountain,  against  a  tufted 
hedge  without  thorns,  or,  at  least,  the  thorns  arc  con- 
cealed. Some  pretty  white  sheep  are  browsing  or 
bounding  over  the  meadow,  which  has  more  flowers 
than  grass  :  a  dog,  all  bedecked  with  ribands  is 
watching  over  the  flock    an<l  the  iui|trudent    she])- 

28 


326  BOUCHER. 

hcrdess  at  the  same  time ;  the  sky  is  divinely  serene 
There  are,  however,  some  ckiuds  hero  and  there, 
tlie  clouds  of  love.     The  silence  is  almost  like  that 
of  night;  scarcely  do  we  hear  the  murmur  of  the 
breeze,  but  do  we  not  hear  the  bcatinfli;  heart  of  As- 
trea  ?     She  sleeps,  but  she  dreams.     We  see  by  the 
a.iritation  of  her  pretty  feet  that  it  is  a  dream  of  love. 
Patience!  the  picture  becomes  animated.   The  shej)- 
herd  Amvntas  comes  from  the  r.eighborino;  arbor,  a 
true    Cytlierean    arbor;    he  carries    in    his    hand   a 
beautiful  basket  of  flowers,  flowers  of  all  seasons; 
the  painter  has  culled  them  without  looking  at  his 
almanac.     There  is  even  in  the  bouquet  a  flower  of 
a  new  species,  half-concealed  by  the  others.     This 
flower,  which  spoils  the  bouquet  somewhat,  but  by 
no   means  the  entire  aftair,   is    a  hUlet-doux.     The 
shepherd   advances    mysteriously,  he  smiles  at  the 
watchful  dog,  he  hangs  his  basket  of  flowers  on  the 
tufted  liedge,  by  the  arm  of  the  sleeper,  who  is  no 
longer  asleep,  but  pretends  to  be.     Let  her  who  has 
never  pretended  to  be  asleep  cast  the  first  stone  at 
her!     Astrea,  therefore,  listens  with    closed    eyes: 
she  hears  the  wind  rustling  through  the  sedge,  the 
refreshing   murmur  of  the   fountain.     What   then? 
You   may  guess  1     She   hears   the   cooings  of   the 
doves,    and    the   sighs  of  the   shepherd  Amvntas; 
she  inhales  the  sweet  perfume  of  the  verdure,  but 
above  all  the  intoxicating  perfume    of  the   basket 
of  flowers.     O  poor  innocent,  beware  of  Love,  he 
has  just  seized  an  arrow !     The  shepherd  Amyntas 
advances  a  step,  his  lips  have  made  two;  here  the 
dog  barks  in  spite  of  the  caresses  of  the  traitor,  but 
'.he  dog  cautious  the  sleeper  too  late,  the  kiss  is  taken 


ENGRAVINGS.  327 

A.lmost  all  Bouclier's  power  is  to  be  found  in  this 
single  picture.  AVe  find  in  it  his  amorous  concep- 
tion, his  fictitious  grace,  his  mournful  and  smiling 
landscape. 

The  two  volumes  of  Boucher  at  the  Print-Hoom 
of  the  Eoyal  Library,  do  not  contain  a  quarter  of  his 
works.  We  must  seek  elsewhere,  also,  for  the  best 
engravings,  copied  after  him,  and  sometimes  engraved 
by  himself.  Thus  he  has  engraved,  with  a  master- 
hand,  the  only  portrait  uf  AVatteau  which  we  possess. 
On  looking  at  these  two  men,  Watteau  and  Boucher, 
we  do  not  discover  the  least  trace  of  the  character 
of  their  talents.  They  are  without  grace,  and  almost 
without  the  expression  of  the  least  genius.  AVattean 
is  hard  and  heavy  ;  Boucher  looks  somewhat  like  an 
old  Koman.  Lavater  would  be  much  embarrassed 
beholding  them  and  their  works.  As  for  Boucher, 
the  phvsioi^nomist  would  maintain  the  truth  of  his 
system,  by  appealing  to  the  dress,  for  Boucher  was 
dressed  like  Dorat,  with  the  same  elegance  and  pre- 
cision. 

If  caprice  or  curiosity  induce  you  to  consult  Bou- 
cher's woi-ks  in  the  Print-Room,  you  will  find  at  the 
outset  a  RacJifl^  which  recalls  soinewhat  his  dear 
Rosina;  on  the  next  page,  a  theatrical-looking  Clirht^ 
absurdly  treated  ;  followed  by  a  Descent  from  the 
Cross^  which  is  more  like  a  Descent  from  the 
Coitrtille  '  some  Saints^  wlio  will  never  go  to  Para- 
dise; Seasons  and  Elements^  represented  ]>y  puffy 
Cii|)ids,  with  verses  in  similar  taste;  some  Muses^ 
who  will  not  ins])ire  you  in  the  least;  a  Ra2}6 
of  Kii,r<)j>a^  which  )vcal!s  j\radame  Boucher;  Yenna 
at  all  agr^:  ^nme  curious  imitations  of  David  Teniers: 


328  EouciiER. 

a  Portrait  of  Boucher^  at  the  time  he  turned  Flcrn- 
isli  i)ainter :  he  is  in  full  rustic  costume,  wi-apped  in 
a  fur  robe,  and  wearing  a  cotton  nightcap.  After 
havinji;  failed  in  the  true,  lie  returned  to  the  graceful. 
After  these  imitations  of  David  Tenicrs,  you  will  iind 
the  Pastoral  Amours,  whicli  are  Boucher's  master- 
jiieccs.  You  will  find  in  them  imagination,  volup- 
tuousness, grace,  magical  effect,  and  even  merit  in 
the  landscape.  Salute  after  these  Bahet^  the  Flower- 
Girl ;  an  Erato^  she  who  inspired  ]>oucher,  and  not 
the  Muse  of  the  Greeks ;  some  Girls^  harvesting, 
gardening,  hogging,  and  reajung;  some  Profiles^  al- 
most worthy  of  Callot;  salute  those  Chinese  Figures^ 
who  a})pear  to  have  detached  themselves  from  your 
screen,  your  fan,  or  your  China  porcelain.  Let  ns 
i\'tuiu  to  France :  unfortunately,  Boucher  always  re- 
mained somewhat  of  a  Chinese.  But  patience:  here 
we  have  true  comedy,  the  comedy  of  Moliere ;  all 
the  scenes  are  there  ])ainted  in  a  picpumt  and  almost 
natural  manner.  Tlie  last  Valeres  are  not  dead  ; 
neither  are  the  last  Celimenes.  Comedians  in  ordin- 
aiy  to  the  king  would  fiiul  much  to  study  there, 
if  they  have  not  already  done  so.  For  my  part,  1 
should  be  very  readily  contented  witli  the  style  in 
v.hich  Boucher  enacts  Moliere's  comedies. 

The  second  volume  opens  with  the  Graces^  the 
Graces  at  the  bath,  the  Graces  everywhere.  Cupid 
reappears;  always  Cujjid,  this  time  enchained  by 
the  Graces,  with  this  couplet  of  the  Cardinal  de 
Bernis : — 

How  many  fickle  ones  are  bound 

With  the  pirille  uf  tli:-  Graces' 

The  girdle  of  the  Graces  is  a   gr.rland  of  flowers. 


posrnoN  AS  aktist.  329 

After  this  comes  (slie  could  not  be  better  placed) 
Madame  de  Pompadom-;  but  the  painter  painted 
her  when  she  was  too  old  to  make  a  Grace  of.  The 
scene  chances.  We  find  German  eiio-ravinos  after 
Boucher,  Boucher  engraved  by  serious  Germans; 
what  a  grotesque  translation!  Here  the  painter 
shows  us  his  handwriting ;  it  is  like  the  clear  and 
graceful  handwriting  of  Jean- Jacques  Bousseau.  We 
pjiss  to  religious  subjects ;  but  do  not  be  afraid  ; 
Boucher  will  be  able  to  laugh  again.  These  are  the 
desigus  fur  the  Paris  JBreviary^  made  doubtless 
after  the  designs  of  Betites-Maisons;  it  is  a  tolerably- 
jjrettj  satire ;  for  example,  he  makes  Faith  hover 
over  the  Invalides,  and  Hope  over  the  Louvre  and 
Tuileries.  The  archbishop  and  the  king  did  not  un- 
dei'stand  it.  There  yet  remains  a  pleasant  Country- 
Fair ;  some  pretty  designs  for  romances  ;  the  Cries 
of  Paris,  freely  treated ;  a  poetical  composition 
of  a  fortune-telling  scene  in  the  open  air;  an  Olym- 
pus, with  the  gods  boldly  exhibited  in  full  muster. 

All  these  works  do  not  constitute  a  great  painter, 
but  do  they  not  offer  a  reasonable  protest  against  the 
disdainful  airs  which  some  persons  affect  toward 
Boucher?  To  judge  an  artist  of  the  second  rank 
properly,  we  must  ])eliold  him  in  his  own  time,  in 
tlie  presence  of  his  works  and  his  contemporaries, 
after  having  first  viewed  him  at  a  distance.  We 
niu.st  hear  what  he  has  to  say,  so  to  s])eak,  and  not 
condemn  liini  l»y  default.  If  Boucher  could  speak 
to  us,  he  would  say :  "  I  saw  what  was  jiassing  around 
me;  I  saw  tluit  religion,  royalty,  genius,  and  all  that 
was  great,  was  changing,  failing,  dying  out.  Could 
I  become  a  man  of  genius  among  such  dwarl's?  and, 

28* 


330  BOUCIIEK. 

besides,  had  I  the  stuff  to  be  one  ?  I  did  as  every 
body  else  did.  Tliev  lauglied,  they  made  love,  tliey 
became  intoxicated  after  supper.  I  laughed,  I  made 
love,  I  l)ecame  intoxicated.  You  can  see  by  my 
pictures  that  it  was  so.  The  priests  were  playing  at 
religion,  the  kings  at  royalty,  the  poets  at  poetry; 
do  not  think  it  strange  that  I  played  at  painting.  I 
have  done  WTong  to  no  one,  at  least,  intentionally.  I 
have  made  two  millions  by  my  pencil ;  it  was  so 
nnich  drawn  from  the  rich ;  I  have  made  such  good 
use  of  it,  that  I  have  scarce  enough  left  to  bury  me 
with.  If  you  wish  to  know  to  whom  I  owe  my  poor 
talents,  I  must  answer  you  that  I  know  nothing 
about  it.  I  have  admired  alternately  Watteau,  liu- 
bens,  and  Coustou." 

Watteau,  Eubens,  and  Coustou  :  these  were  Bou- 
cher's three  masters;  but  he  never  had  the  sparkling 
animation  of  the  painter  of  the  Fetes  galantes^  nor 
the  splendid  touch  of  the  great  Flemish  colorist,  nor 
the  noble  dignity  of  the  Fi-ench  sculptor  (it  must  be 
confessed  that  the  marlile  dignities).  By  the  side  of 
these  three  masters,  Boucher  may  here  and  thei'e  hold 
his  ground.  More  than  one  admirer  of  the  past  will 
smile  at  his  coquettish  grace,  at  his  foolishly-lively 
imagination,  at  the  blue  haze  of  his  landscapes,  at  the 
voluptuous  mysteries  of  his  arbors,  at  his  faces  so 
blooming  that  they  apj^ear  fed  on  roses,  according  to 
the  expression  of  an  ancient  writer.  Diderot,  who 
founded  an  encyclopedia,  who  invented  the  drama  of 
common  life,  who  (»])ened  a  school  of  morals,  did  7iot 
desire  to  know  anything  about  the  painter  of  Madame 
de  Pompadour  and  Madame  Dubarry,  especially  as 
he  let  himself  be  guided  somewhat  in  his  ideas  on 


CEITICISM   OF   r-IDEROT.  331 

painting  by  Grenzc,  tlie  born  enemy  of  Boucber. 
See,  bowever,  bow  Diderot  criticises  tbis  painter,  in 
his  free  way  of  speaking :  "  I  venture  to  say  tbat 
Boucber  never  once  saw  Nature,  tbat  Nature  at 
least,  wbicb  is  formed  to  interest  my  soul,  yom-s,  tbat 
of  a  well-born  cbild,  tbat  of  a  woman  wbo  feels ; 
among  an  infinity  of  proofs  wbicb  I  migbt  give,  a 
single  one  will  suffice,  it  is  tbat  in  tbe  multitude  of 
fiaures  of  men  and  women  wbicb  be  bas  ijainted,  I 
defy  any  one  to  find  any  suitable  for  a  bas-relief,  still 
less  for  a  statue.  There  are  too  many  airs,  graces, 
and  affectations,  for  a  severe  taste.  There  is  no  use  of 
his  displaying  them  to  me  naked,  I  always  see  the 
rouge,  patches,  trinkets,  and  all  tbe  trumpery  of  tbe 
toilet.  Do  you  think  that  be  had  any  idea  of  the 
cbarminir  and  nuljle  fiirure  of  Petrarch, 

E'l  riso,  e'l  canto,  e'l  parler  dolce,  umano  ? 

As  for  those  fine  and  delicate  analogies  which  sum- 
mon ol)jects  upon  the  canvass,  and  unite  them  together 
by  imperceptible  threads,  by  heaven !  I  do  not  believe 
that  he  knew  what  they  were.  All  his  compositions 
seem  to  the  eye  to  be  keeping  up  an  insupportable 
hubbult.  They  are  the  most  mortal  enemies  to  re- 
pose which  I  know  of.  When  he  paints  children 
he  groups  them  well,  but  they  are  always  fooling 
away  in  the  clouds ;  for  of  all  this  innumerable 
family  you  will  not  find  one  employed  in  the  actual 
occupations  of  life,  in  studying  bis  lesson,  reading, 
writing,  or  twisting  hemp.  Tliey  are  romantic  and 
ideal  l.cings,  little  bastards  of  Bacclms  or  Sik'nus. 
These  cliihlren  could  be  readily  produced  in  sculj)- 
ture  on  the  surface  of  an  antique  vase.     They  are 


332 


BOUCIIlut 


fat,  plump,  and  chiibhy.  If  tlie  artist  could  scn.ptnre 
in  marble,  his  style  would  be  in  character.  lie  is 
not,  however,  a  fool;  lie  is  a  false  painter  of  merit  as 
there  are  false  wits,  lie  has  not  the  thouo-hts  of  art, 
he  has  Init  its  concetti?''  After  tliis  preamble,  how- 
ever, Diderot  condescends  to  declare,  in  reference 
to  four  pastoral  scenes,  that  "  Boucher  had  his  ra- 
tional moments,"  that  he  had  produced  a  charming 
poem.  A  little  further  on  lie  retracts  a  little  of  his 
severity.  "  T  have  spoken  too  harshly  of  J^oucher. 
I  retract.  I  have  seen  cliildren  by  him  which  are 
really  and  truly  children.  Boucher  is  graceful,  and 
by  no  means  severe ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  unite  grace 
and  severity." 

Boucher,  who  had  a  hundred  pupils,  has  left  no 
school.  Fragonard  alone,  among  his  pupils,  often 
recalls  the  style  of  his  master;  and  Fragonard  threv/- 
away  moi-e  recklessly  than  Boucher  a  more  gifted 
mind.  Greuze,  at  the  same  time  that  he  looked 
down  upon  Bouclier,  with  his  friend  Diderot,  recalls 
also  the  freshness  and  smile  of  this  painter.  Can 
we  not  find  some  trace  of  him  in  the  Broken 
Pitcher  ? 

David  was  also  a  pupil  of  Boucher,  doubtless,  be- 
cause he  w^as  his  cousin;  but  in  this  case  the  lessons  of 
the  master  can  not  be  traced  in  the  pupil.  While  he 
admired  Boucher,  he  feared  to  follow  his  example. 
It  is  the  mournful  consequence  of  excess  in  art  that 
the  reaction  which  follows  takes  the  opposite  ex- 
treme. To  reilecting  minds,  the  departing  Boucher 
explains  the  coming  David.  The  latter  makes  8ul> 
limity  rigid  after  the  other  has  relaxed  grace.  Bou- 
cher was  nothing  more  than  a  fimcy  painter,  because 


VINE-CROWNED.  o33 

he  tried  to  trick  out  Xatnre  in  prettiness ;  DjinIcI 
only  a  conventional  painter,  because  lie  sought  the 
real  in  the  types  of  an  ideal  statuary.  Thus  did  Ijoth, 
one  in  almost  forgotten  valleys,  the  other  on  proud 
hill-tops,  fail  in  their  aims,  and  contend  without  vic- 
tory. Xature  was  before  them,  ever  opening  infinite 
horizons  to  them  beyond  the  mountains,  but  they 
passed-by  without  regarding  her. 

And  yet  Boucher  will  live  hi  the  history  of  French 
painting.  He  did  not  raise  his  head  to  receive  the 
golden  crown,  which  genius  has  placed  upon  tlie 
head  of  Poussin  and  Lesueur.  He  could  not  grasp 
with  his  profane  hand  the  chain  of  divine  sentiment 
which  reaches  from  Poussin  to  Gericault,  after  having 
touched  Lesueur,  and  some  others  of  less  dignity ; 
but  like  a  second  Anacreon,  Boucher  crowned  liiin- 
self  with  vine-leaves  in  the  company  of  his  mistresses ; 
and  M'ith  caieless  hand  stripped  oif  the  leaves  of  the 
garland  of  flowers  which  is  the  Graces'  girdle,  of  that 
garland,  which  a  century  ago,  was  the  girdle  of 
Franco. 


LANTARA. 


The  tavern  was  almost  always  the  studio,  the  castle 
in  the  air,  the  horizon  of  Lantara,  in  which  respect 
he  resemljled  two  Flemish  painters,  BroUwer  and 
Oraesbeke.  It  is  not  my  aim  to  write  a  course  of 
morals  on  paintino;.  Like  the  poets,  like  all  disci))les 
of  art,  the  painters  have  the  privilci^e  of  descending 
into  the  dark  de])ths  of  vice,  and  thence  taking  tlieir 
flight  to  the  splendors  of  art.  Striking  contrast.-^ 
have  been  witnessed  ;  the  lower  the  soul  descends, 
the  greater  force  does  it  seem  to  gather  for  its  up- 
ward course  to  the  regions  of  divinity.  St.  Augus- 
tine has  expressed  it,  "While  the  Angel  of  Darkness 
spreads  over  us  the  shade  and  luxurious  boughs  of  ter- 
restrial pleasure,  the  guardian  Angel,  far  from  aban- 
doning us,  sheds  upon  our  arid  hearts  the  chaste  dew 
of  the  celestial  fields,  it  hovers  above  and  around  us,  as 
if  to  cover  ns  with  its  white  wings."  However,  by  d  int 
of  passing  through  the  forest  of  j)leasure,  man  ends  by 
leaving  there  his  pure  robes.  They  are  by  little  and 
little  torn  to  shreds;  as  soon  as  the  soul  has  under- 
gone the  first  shock,  the  mischief  is  done,  the  mischief 
is  for  a  long  time  irreparable  ;  the  horizon  becomes 


ins  BIRTH.  335 

troubled,  tlie  imagination  loses  its  morning  freslmess, 
thought  only  casts  a  pale  ray  here  and  there,  pro- 
ducing neither  heat  nor  light. 

Xothino;  is  known  of  the  origin  of  Simon-Mathurin 
Lantara.   It  is  said  that  he  was  born  at  Fontainebleau, 
or  near  Montargis.     His   father  was   a   poor  sign- 
|)ainter  from  Piedmont,  his  mother  a  dealer  in  small 
toilet  articles.     Their  marriage  appears  to  have  been 
consummated  withuut  the  aid  of  the  priest.     The 
jiai  liter  and  the  shop  woman  were  none  the  happier 
on  that  account.     However,  according  to  the  phrase 
ct^nsecrated  by  usage.  Heaven  blessed  their  union, 
since  tliey  had  a  great  number  of  children.   Mathuriii 
early  became  familiar  with  the  sad  si3ectacle  of  a 
father  who  got  drunk  and  beat  his  wife,  when  the 
wiue  was  bad.     Mathurin  promised   himself,  if  he 
siiould  one  day  be  able  to  drink  his  wine,  that  he 
would  have  good  wine.     He  kept  his  word,  as  you 
will  see.     In  his  father's  house,  he  early  became  ac- 
quainted   M'ith   the   sorrows  of  wretchedness.     He 
saw  his  motlier  weep,  he  wept  with  her  ;  she  ended 
by  consoling  herself,  he  does  not  dare  to  say  how: 
lie  consoled  himself  too;  perhaps  he  ought  to  have 
wei»t  all  the  more  :   but  he  did  not  come  into  the 
world  to  l)e  always  crying.     To  console  himself  he 
went  out.     He  was  little  more  than  twelve  years  old 
when  the  grand  spectacle  of  Xature  had  already  an 
interest  for  him.     Escaping  from  school  and  boyish 
amusements,  he  carelessly  lost  himself  in  the  forest. 
Overj)owercd  with  wonder  at  the  old  moss-covered 
trees,  the  savage  rocks,  the  smiling  vistas,  the  steep 
liillsides,  wlieiice  the  sand  ])ours  down  like  a  sj)ark- 
ling  fountain.    He  followed  with  a  ravished  glance  the 


336  LANTAJKA. 

thousand  clian^lino:  tints  wliicli  tlie  sunHu:ht  scattered 
here  and  there.  The  sun  seen  through  the  trees  was 
to  liim  u  magic  picture.  By  dint  of  being  present 
at  all  the  nietaniorphoses  of  Nature,  he  became  cog- 
nizant of  her  mysteries.  lie  early  learned  the  har- 
mony of  earth  and  sky,  the  gentle  treml>lings  of  the 
plants  before  the  gathering  storm,  the  fresh  blooming 
of  the  trees,  bushes,  and  flowers,  after  the  rain  and 
the  storm  had  passed  over  Nature,  the  cheerfulness 
of  the  morning  after  the  sun  has  dispei-sed  the  fog 
hovering  over  the  hill-tops,  when  the  breeze  scatters 
the  dew  and  the  perfume  of  the  flowers,  the  religious 
melanchulj  of  the  twilight,  when  the  sun  has  but  a 
ray  left,  a  ray  for  the  spire  which  lo<jks  so  blue  be- 
yond the  green  trees,  for  the  laljorer  who  has  reached 
the  last  furrow,  for  the  gleaner  who  is  smiling  be- 
neath her  burden.  Mathurin  Lautara  became  pas- 
sionately attached  to  such  sights.  The  day  was  soon 
not  long  enough  for  his  poetical  wanderings.  lie 
sometimes  passed  the  nights  in  the  flehls,  under  the 
clear  moonlight ;  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  i)ond 
or  lake,  and  there,  listening  to  the  prophetic  bird  of 
night,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  he  contemplated 
the  moon  as  it  was  reflected  throusfh  the  foliacre  in 
the  watery  mirror.  He  was  seized  with  so  ardent  a 
love  for  Nature,  that  he  talked  aloud  to  the  plants 
and  trees. 

Lautara  communed  with  the  plants :  never  with 
men.  If  he  met  a  shepherd  or  a  hunter,  he  got  out 
of  the  way  as  quickly  as  he  could,  as  if  he  had  feared 
being  ciaught  in  some  piece  of  mischief.  An  old 
canon  of  Fontainebleau,  however,  who  was  also  fond 
of  walking,  succeeded,  by  degrees,  in  taming  thi? 


HIS   LOVE   OF   COUNTRY.  837 

young  savage.  He  followed  him ;  was  one  day  a 
witness  to  Lis  tender  apostroplies  to  the  daisies  and 
violets,  the  sun  and  the  clouds.  He  sj^oke  to  him 
witli  so  much  mildness  and  sympathy,  that  Lantara 
listened  to  him  with  interest.without  thinkino;  of  takino- 
flight.  The  next  day  a  similar  meeting  took  place. 
Tlie  canon  had  the  fables  of  La  Fontaine  in  his  hand. 
— "  Do  you  know  how  to  read,  my  child  ?" — "  Yes," 
said  Lantara,  "  but  I  get  very  tired  of  it." — "  I  will 
give  you  this  book,  which  will  not  tire  you." — They 
walked  along  together;  the  canon  sat  down  to  rest 
at  the  foot  of  an  immense  sand-bank.  Lantara,  with- 
out troubling  himself  about  his  old  friend,  cut  a  stick, 
and  began  to  trace  figures  at  his  feet.  The  canon, 
who  has  related  this  incident,  does  not  tell  us  what 
was  the  subject  of  the  sketch ;  he  contents  himself 
with  relating  that  Lantara,  more  solicitous  about  the 
color  than  the  outline,  availed  himself  of  the  varieties 
of  white,  grey,  red,  yellow,  and  blue  sand.  lie  had 
tints  of  all  sorts  for  the  comj^osition  of  this  new  style 
of  mosaic. 

The  autumn,  with  its  yellow  leaves ;  the  winter, 
with  its  hoar  frost,  had  also  their  channs  fur  Lantara. 
He  foll(jwed  Nature,  step  by  step,  in  all  her  works: 
works  of  life  and  works  of  death.  In  the  autunm  he 
went  to  the  desolate  ravine,  to  see  the  leaves  roll  in 
the  torrent;  in  winter  he  saddened  his  mind  before 
tlie  solemn  representation  of  death. 

We  lose  trace  of  Lantara  between  his  fifteenth  and 
Ills  twenty-fifth  year.  It  is  said  that,  on  his  a  nival 
at  Paris,  he  stund)led  into  the  studio  of  a  dauber,  who, 
struck  with  the  talent  of  the  youth,  undertook  to  lodge 
and   lioaiNJ   Lantara  for  his  work,  reserving  to  hiin- 

2U 


3oR  LANTARA. 

self  the  riolit  of  signing  the  best  hmdseapcs  ut  liis  own 
])] ensure.  Tliis  is,  word  for  word,  tlie  sunie  story  as 
tliat  of  Bronwer,  another  painter  of  the  tavern.  It 
ha^  also  been  said  that  Lantara  studied  in  a  wretclicd 
studio  at  Versailles,  with  a  peddling  painter,  who 
made  him  paint  tlie  backgrounds  of  his  pictures,  at 
the  rate  of  forty  sous  a  day.  These  are  not  very  re- 
liable stories.  I  prefer  to  believe  that  Lantara  had 
no  other  teacher  than  his  father,  the  sign-painter;  his 
own  instincts  taught  him  the  rest. 

We  find  him  again  at  Paris,  still  solitary,  still  poor; 
he  painted  moonlights  and  sketched  forests,  but  Mas 
not  aware  of  his  2:enius.  IIow  can  we  believe  the 
fact,  that  everybody  lauded  in  his  presence  the  rose- 
colored  landscapes  of  Boucher?  He  would  not  sub- 
mit to  become  a  follower  of  this  l)ad  master,  who  saw 
Nature  only  in  the  lieathen  mythology.  Lantara  had 
been  to  a  better  school ;  he  had  seen  Nature  only  as 
she  was,  in  all  her  magic  power,  without  periphrasis, 
and  without  hyperbole,  lie  knew  nothing  in  the 
world  about  drawing,  but  how  did  it  happen  that, 
with  three  strokes  of  his  pencil,  he  could  detach  a 
tree  from  the  ilank  of  a  mountain,  and  make  a  w^ater- 
fall  dash  over  the  rugged  rocks.  It  was  because 
.  he  was  his  own  master ;  he  was  an  inspired  paijiter, 
like  Giotto,  like  so  many  others,  predestined  to  be 
artists. 

Do  you  wish  to  know  what  use  he  made  of  his 
talents? 

In  a  dingy  and  dilapidated  house,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Louvi-e,  above  a  fi-uiterer,  above  a  for- 
gotten dancing-gin,  above  a  sacristan,  had  Lantara 
built  his  nest.     This  dwelling  of  the  painter's  is  so 


WOKKS    FOK    JJIS   DINNER.  339 

bare  aud  desolate  that  a  sheriff's  officer  would  not 
tliink  it  -worth  an  attachment.  A  truckle-1  ed,  a  tahle, 
an  easel,  f(.>rni  pretty  much  its  entire  furniture.  IIow 
could  poor  Lantara  have  abandoned  the  pleasant  land- 
scape of  Fontainebleau  for  such  a  retreat?  We  might 
understand  it  if  the  window  looked  out  upon  any  pros- 
pect, but  none  is  to  be  seen.  Naught  is  visible  but 
chimneys  and  garret-windows,  a  little  sunlight  through 
the  smoke.  Lantara,  however,  never  sees  this  sad  pic- 
ture. Ilis  memory  is  great.  He  had  only  to  descend 
into  himself  to  recover,  in  all  their  mornmg  fresh- 
ness, in  all  their  springtime  grace,  the  landscapes  in 
which  his  first  fifteen  years  had  been  embosomed. 
See,  he  has  inscribed  here  and  there  on  the  l)lne 
paper  of  his  chamber  whole  pages  of  his  recollections. 
lie  needed  for  this  only  a  little  charcoal  and  a  little 
chalk.  Besides,  he  scarcely  ever  works  in  this  room, 
unless  inspiration  gets  the  better  of  idleness,  which 
seldom  happens,  since  inspiration  never  moves  him, 
except  at  the  sight  of  a  glass  of  old  wine.  As  soon 
as  he  is  on  his  feet,  he  descends  to  the  next  wine-shop 
or  the  next  cafe.  At  both  there  is  a  laro-e  book  which 
is  presented  to  him  as  soon  as  he  arrives.  While 
breakfast  is  i)reparing,  he  opens  the  large  book,  and 
makes  a  drawing  in  it  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  He  calls  this  Ilabelais'  quarter  of  an  hour. 
The  drawings  do  n(jt  remain  long  in  the  lai'ge  book, 
for  connoisseurs  pay  for  them  in  advance.  When 
Lantara  has  breakfasted,  he  takes  a  walk  like  a 
good  citizen  of  Paris,  with  nothing  to  do.  He  was  a 
groat  simple  child,  like  La  Fontaine,  amusing  him- 
self with  everything,  forgetting  time  and  ]ilace,  with 
the  provcn-bial  carelessness  oJ"  an  nrti>t.     He  returna 


340  LAJITARA. 

to  dine,  somcthnes  at  the  cafe,  sometimes  at  tlit 
w'ine-sliop,  according  to  the  caprice  of  the  moment; 
it  is  the  same  story  as  in  tlie  morning :  the  great 
book  lies  on  liis  table.  To  stimulate  the  talents  of  the 
designer,  the  innkeeper  spreads  before  him  the  oldest 
bottles  in  his  cellar.  After  dinner,  Lantara  takes 
another  walk,  like  a  careless  idler  who  has  all  his 
time  to  spare.  In  the  evening,  being  no  longer  able 
to  promenade,  he  drinks  to  pass  the  time.  He  is 
really  the  most  good-natured  drunkard  in  the  uni- 
verse :  he  drinks  generous  wines ;  each  glass  engen- 
ders some  piquant  novelty,  some  original  sally.  To- 
ward midnight,  he  re-enters  his  sorry  abode,  and 
sleeps  marvellously  well  in  his  wretched  l)ed.  It  is 
hard  to  understand  how,  with  his  undoubted  talent, 
he  remained  in  this  wretched  atmosphere,  with  no 
other  companion  but  poverty. 

Incapable  of  managing  himself,  he  needed  a  second 
Madame  de  La  Sabliere.  An  idle  dreaminess  had 
taken  possession  of  him  ;  his  mind  was  lost  amid  a 
thousand  deceitful  temptations.  If  we  may  so  speak, 
lie  was  a  denizen  of  earth  onlv  at  meal-times.  He 
loved  only  the  sun  and  the  forests.  Man  appeared 
to  him  to  be  only  a  superfluity  of  creation:  he,  there- 
fore, had  none  of  the  vanities  of  this  lower  world. 
He  concealed  his  name  and  his  existence ;  he  would 
scarcely  ever  sign  his  drawings  or  his  pictures.  He 
might  liave  become  rich,  but  of  what  use  was  money 
to  him?  The  Count  de  Caylus  paid  him  a  hundred 
crowns  for  a  picture ;  it  was  a  moonlight  view.  Lantara 
was  in  an  uncomfortable  state,  not  knowing  what  to 
do  with  so  much  money.  He  fancied  that  all  the 
rogucK  in  Paris  were  at  his  heels ;   every  passer-by 


THE    CUESE   OF   MONEY.  341 

had  a  sinister  look.    He  did  not  dare  to  walk  about, 
he  did  not  dare  to  stop;  lie  was  no  longer  dreaming; 
it  was  all  up  with  Lantara !    He  entered  the  tavern ; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  very  drunkards  regarded  him 
with  covetous  eyes.   He  no  longer  dared  to  get  drunk : 
it  was  all  over  with  him !     He  finally  returned,  pale 
and  tremltling,  to  his  room.     Where  was  he  to  put 
the  hundred  crowns?  under  his  pillow.     He  went  to 
bed  ;  he  could  not  go  to  sleep ;  his  pillow  is  harder 
tlian  usual;  the  hundred  crowns  are  constantly  in  his 
thoughts.     The  door  is  only  half-closed  ;   if  a  robber 
should  pass  up  the  staircase  !   and  a  thousand  other 
disagreeable  fancies.     He  takes  a  desperate  resolu- 
tion, and  puts  the  sum  in  the  drawer  of  his  old  table. 
He  goes  to  bed  again,  and  closes  his  eyes ;  scarce  has 
he  dropped  half-asleep,  when  he  fancies  that  he  hears 
those  diabolical  crowns  dancing  a  shuffle ;   a  clear 
and  sharp  noise  excites  him  to  the  highest  degree ;  he 
awakes  with  a  bound  like  a  kid  ;   at  last  he  goes  to 
fileep  for  good,  but  he  is  not  at  the  end  of  his  dreams. 
The  crowns  are  metamorphosed.     Lantara  beholds  a 
solemn  procession  of  well-cnisted  bottles  pass  before 
liiui.     He  wishes  to  seize  something,  but  he  grasps 
only  a  shadow.     In  a  word,  he  slecjis  badly,  like  a 
bad  rich  man.     In  the  morning,  Lantara  takes  his 
money,  cursing  riclies  as  he  does  so.    He  goes  to  the 
tavern,  to  I'clate  liis  misfcirtune  :    certain  worthy  per- 
sons compassionate  and  aid  him,  by  good  bumjjei-s 
lj«)  free  hims'ilf  of  his  crowns.     He  joyfully  resumes 
his  course   of  life,    his    careless    wretchedness,    liis 
vagal >ond  reveries. 

Poverty   was  liis   veritable    muse   of   inspiration. 
l\s  Soon  jis  he  was  possessed  of  a  crown  he  could  do 

2Ii* 


34.3  LANTAUA, 

nothing  It  is  related  that  some  great  lord  —  his 
name  is  not  given  —  summoned  the  painter,  and  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  lodge  him  in  his. mansion.  Not 
daring  to  refuse  a  nobleman  so  devoted  to  the  arts, 
Lantara  went  and  installed  himself  in  the  mansion 
with  his  slender  baggage.  lie  found  himself  very 
ill  at  ease,  like  a  man  expatriated.  Yainly  did  he 
essay  to  paint  or  sketch,  he  was  no  longer  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  his  genius.  Like  Eeranger,  he  had  left 
his  wooden  shoes  and  his  lute  at  the  door.  He  es- 
caped without  saying  a  word,  and  returned  to  the 
tavern,  saying,  "  I  have  at  last  shaken  off  my  golden 
mantle." 

Lantara  was  wonderfull}'  himself  under  the  roof 
of  the  poor  artisan,  before  a  wretched  hearth,  en- 
livened by  half-naked  children.  There  he  said  all 
that  he  thought :  he  spoke  of  his  ftither  who  was 
poor ;  he  delighted  in  narrating,  in  his  strange  way, 
liis  tavern  adventures.  What  mattered  the  sildin<r 
of  the  palace  to  him  who  appreciated  only  the  riches 
of  Nature  ? 

Lantara  did  not  belong  to  his  age.  The  noise  and 
pomp  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.  had  not  seduced  or 
reached  the  simple  poet  of  the  forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau.  Besides,  nothing,  as  Madame  Bellochas  said, 
was  real  to  him  except  that  which  had  no  existence. 
He  was  born  to  live  in  the  freedom  from  care  of  a  coun- 
try life.  Forced  to  live  in  Paris,  he  sought  to  deceive 
himself  by  painting  landscapes  ;  if  he  draid<  it  wa^ 
still  to  deceive  himself.  With  him  wine  had  almost 
the  effect  of  opium,  for  his  intoxication  was  calm, 
drowsy,  dreamy,  if  not  poetical  like  that  of  Hoff- 
mann, at  least  pleasant  and  cheerful.     La  Fontaine 


JACQUELINE.  343 

tipsy  would  have  given  you  a  good  idea  of  Lantnra. 
This  singular  man  not  only  lived  apart  from  his 
time,  hut,  so  to  speak,  apart  from  himself.  Ilis  body 
was  onlv  a  coarse  old  tattered  <»;arment  in  which  his 
soul  clothed  itself  for  want  of  a  better ;  but  between 
the  body  and  the  soul,  the  prison  and  the  prisoner, 
there  was  scarcely  ever  any  harmony.  How  numy 
times  in  the  same  day  did  the  soul  fly  away  to  the 
woods  and  the  mountains,  to  breathe  the  aroma  of  the 
turf,  or  to  expand  in  the  thicket,  with  the  bird  and 
the  flower,  while  the  body  rested  on  the  misera])le 
bed,  or  was  dragged  along,  sad  and  desolate,  to  the 
tavern  or  to  the  back-shop  of  tlie  fruiterer ! 

The  fruitwoman  was  called  Jacqueline.  She  M'as 
a  young  woman  of  Picardy,  whose  good  looks  had 
captivated  Lantara.  She  was  fresh-looking  and 
good-natured,  two  treasures  for  a  woman.  She 
sang  from  morning  till  night,  her  clear  voice  as- 
cen<ling  as  high  as  the  painter's  room.  During  the 
flne  season  he  opened  his  window;  his  mind,  which 
was  wandering  far  away,  returned  at  the  sound  of 
Jacqueline's  song.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  fancied 
that  the  song  came  from  his  lost  valleys,  such  was 
the  rural  freshness  of  the  voice.  Jacqueline,  on  her 
side,  was  alive  to  the  glances  of  Lantara.  When 
she  saw  hiin  drunk,  she  pitied  him  from  the  bottom 
of  her  heart.  It  more  than  once  ha])pened  that  the 
])aintc'r,  not  being  able  to  mount  the  stairs,  halted  at 
tlio  ground-floor,  thaid<s  to  the  kindness  more  or  less 
]»roper  of  tlm  frnitwoman,  Lantai'a,  having  no  longer 
a  faniily,  h.-id  fomid  in  Iier  a  sister  as  well  as  a  mis- 
tress. It  was  often  owing  to  her  that  he  did  not  <liG 
of  Ininger,  aband<»ned  to  his  sorry  bed.     AVlun   ho 


344:  LANTARA. 

]u\(l  no  money  to  pay  for  his  cHinier,  slic  diseovcied 
a  tlu)iisand  crcntle  reasons  for  his  dinino^  with  lier. 
He  did  not  require  much  persuasion.     In  his  days 
of  poverty,  he  descended  to  Jacqueline's  apartment 
at  the  dinner-hour.     By  his  very  mode  of  entrance 
she  saw  that  slie  must  set  a  plate  for  him,  for  he  sighed 
and  looked  t-oward  the  hearth.     She  was  a  provi- 
dence to  him  in  everything.     If  he  was  unwell,  she 
nursed  him.     In  winter  she  shared  with  him  her 
snuiU  stock  of  firewood,  and  Lantai-a  had  always  the 
largest  portion :    the   best   fruits  on  the   stall,    the 
rosiest  and  most  velvety  peach,  the   most   golden 
grapes,    were   always   his.     Jacqueline   was   better 
than  Therese  Levasseur,  she  was  more   fresh   and 
artless.     We  should  not  be  astonished  at  Lantara's 
affection  for  her.     She  might,  perhaps,  by  her  care- 
ful solicitude,  have  drawn  him  for  ever  from  the  door 
of  the  wineshop,  but  she  died  too  soon  to  accomplish 
this  o-ood  work.     Lantara  was  stricken  to  the  heart 
by  her  almost  sudden  death.     He  ^gain  found  him- 
self alone,  and  already  growing  old  ;  he  lost  courage 
and  returned  to  the  wineshop  with  gi-eater  reckless- 
ness than  ever.     It  was  with  great  difliiculty  that  he 
consoled  himself.     Six  months  after  the  misfortune, 
if  any  one  spoke  to  him  of  Jacqueline,  he  still  sighed 
and    wept,    whether   tipsy  or  not.     He  was  never 
willing   to   sell   a   fine    landscape,   which   he   had 
painted  in  the  happy  days  when  Jacqueline  sang. 
One  day,  when  his  neighbor,  the  superanuated  act- 
ress, asked  him  why  he  thought  so  much  of  this  pic- 
ture, he  answered  her,  "  Then  you  do  not  hear  Jac- 
queline singing  in  the  landscape." 

If  I  should  speak  of  other  amours  of  Lantara,  J 


AT   THE   HOSPITAL.  345 

Bhoiild  be  forced  to  descend  too  low ;  I  prefer  to  pass 
them  over.  It  lias  been  said  that  he  had  met  Madame 
Dubarry.  They  were  both  on  the  same  road,  he  a 
poor  hap-liazard  lover,  she  a  reckless  sinner  of 
twenty.  Besides,  Lantara  was  acquainted,  L  do  not 
know  how,  perhaps  throngh  his  mother,  with  an  annt 
of  Madame  Dubarry,  Cantini,  a  celebrated  dealer 
in  articles  for  the  toilet. 

With  his  mode  of  life,  Lantara  conld  not  but  die 
at  the-  hospital.  Every  one  predicted  this  as  his  last 
refuge.  Far  fi-om  trembling  at  this  prospect,  he 
spoke  of  it  complacently,  and  thus,  having  fallen  ill, 
had  himself  taken  to  La  Charite  (a  celebrated  hospi- 
tal), as  a  matter  of  course.  He  did  not  die  during 
his  first  admission.  The  superintendent,  knowing 
whom  he  had  to  deal  with,  kept  him  as  long  as  pos- 
sible in  a  state  of  convalescence,  persuading  him 
that  it  would  be  dangerous  to  leave  too  soon.  It  will 
be  readily  perceived  that  the  superintendent  found 
his  account  in  so  doing.  liantara  drew  designs  for 
him  on  tickets,  in  exchange  for  the  use  of  the  key 
of  the  cellar ;  "  pay-tickets"  he  called  them,  as  he  set 
liiinself  to  work.  lie  promised  to  return  to  such  good 
quarters  :  he  soon  did  so  ;  but  this  time  with  death 
for  a  companion. 

Lantara  felt  that  he  was  dying.  When  one  day 
the  pencil  and  the  glass  fell  from  his  hands,  he  felt 
that  he  was  on  the  brink  of  the  tond).  He  was  not 
terrified,  l)ut  resigned  himself  with  a  good  grace. 
"  II"  the  soul  is  immortal,"  Lantara  must  have  thought, 
*'  mine  can  not  run  any  risk  of  being  in  a  worse  ))lace. 
The  taverns  and  landscapes  of  the  other  world  will 
be  curious  to  examine.     If  the  soul   is  not  ininioital, 


34^  LANTAR.V. 

there  will  still  be  soiiictliinj'-  left  of  me  in  tliis  life,  i\ 
tuft  of  grass,  a  little  Hower  on  iny  grave,  which  will 
turn  at  its  ease  to  the  sun." 

Before  resuming  the  patli  to  tlie  liospital,  he  wa8 
desirous  of  once  more  beholding  Nature,  his  first  and 
last  friend  here  below.  Where  was  he  to  ffo  ?  He 
has  onlv  sti-ength  enough  to  reach  the  tomb  !  but  for 
the  farewell  meetins;  he  can  call  to  his  aid  the  hi^s 
of  his  youth.  He  followed  the  course  of  the  Seine 
.as  tar  as  Meudon.  He  ascended  into  the  woods, 
rummaged  with  delight  in  the  yellow  leaves,  lost 
liimself  rapturously  in  the  paths  amid  the  brush- 
wood. He  descended  by  the  side  of  the  chateau  of 
Meudon  toward  Valaisy,  and  found  himself  as  by 
enchantment,  in  a  small,  deserted,  and  silent  valley, 
surrounded  by  woods,  diversified  by  small  lakes,  with 
no  trace  of  humanity  except  a  thatched  cottage.  I 
will  not  attempt  to  describe  to  you  the  happiness  of 
our  landscape-painter.  He  walked  about  until  even- 
ing, delighted  with  the  quiet,  scenting  the  fragrance 
of  the  late  harvest,  and  of  the  apples  fallen  on  the 
ground,  gathering  like  a  child  the  berries  of  the  eg- 
lantine, tlie  violet  fruit  of  the  heather,  the  last  hare- 
bells of  the  fields,  admirinu;  the  plav  of  the  sun  on  the 
lakes,  and  the  autumn  leaves ;  in  fine,  as  hajtpy  as 
Jean-Jacques  in  the  island  of  St.  Pierre. 

On  his  return,  in  the  evening,  Lantara  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  hospital  of  La  Charite. 

In  the  closing  hour,  the  confessor  of  the  hospital 
gave  him  absolution ;  after  which  he  delivered  a 
discourse  to  him  on  the  happiness  of  death,  ending 
with  these  words  :  "  You  are  haitpy,  my  son,  you  are 
]>assing   into    eternity,    vou    will    see    CJod    face   to 


AN    HISTOEICAL   PAINTER.  347 

face." — "  "What,  father !"  mnrmured  the  dying  man, 
in  a  faint  voice,  "  always  face  to  face,  and  never  in 
profile?" — Such  were  his  last  words.  lie  died  at 
the  same  period  with  Gilbert,  young  like  himself. 
Gilbert  and  Lantara  were  brothers  in  other  respects 
than  in  poverty;* they  both  loved  the  forest  and  the 
mountain,  the  flowery  meadow  and  the  nistic  path. 
Another  dreamer  of  the  same  iamily  followed  soon 
afterward,  to  suffer  on  the  couch  of  Gilbert,  and  die 
on  that  of  Lantara :  I  mean  Hegesippus  Moreau. 
He,  too,  went  to  the  school  of  ISTature.  Like  Lantara, 
he  disdained  the  shackles  of  human  vanity.  AVhile 
his  feet  wandered  in  the  pursuit  of  gross  pleasures, 
his  soul  wandered  in  full  liberty  amid  the  green 
thickets  or,  the  ever-varying  pictures  of  the  clouds. 
Lantara  could  say  with  Hegesippns  to  his  soul,  when 
about  to  quit  the  earth  :  "Fly  without  fear  I" — 

Of  my  faults,  thou,  fast-sleeping  ilove, 
Nor  witness,  nor  sharer  hast  been ! 

Lantara.  like  Greuze,  has  been  a  prey  to  the  farce- 
writers.  Four  of  theraf  set  together  to  distort,  nncere- 
iiiouiously,  his  original  character.  Do  you  know 
what  they  made  of  him?  An  historical  painter! 
They  represented  him  painting  Belisarius?  As  if 
I^autara  had  ever  known  IJelisarius!  He  never  even 
heard  of  tin- Greeks  and  Romans!  Under  the  bunirlimx 

•  Enqravinj^s  have  been  made  of  some  of  I<antara's  pictures.  Darcthas 
encrnved  the  DiMif^fefi/iIe  Mcftin^,  the  AiNomns  Shrjihrni,  (he  Hiippi/ 
Itiilhir,  the  AiiKiriiUs  Ftalnrman ;  I'i(|Uei>iit,  the  Shrrl  ofWatrr,  nil'' 
the  Fiyfi-rtirt;  Lehaw,  the  first  volume  of  the  I'/V'j/'.s  in  llie  Nci'<i/i/ii>r- 
Itijoil  of  I'arin.  'I'he  liurin  has  not,  however,  heeii  ahle  to  re|iri)ihiri» 
Ihiit  rreshiirtui  of  rolor  and  aerial  mint  which  came  without  bidding  to 
Luiitaru.  t    i'ieaid,  Uair.  ,  Kadet,  DcKfoiilaiiicd. 


3J:8  LANTARA. 

haiidrf  of  tlicse  fiirce-writers,  this  most  interesting 
drunkard  is  nothing  more  than  a  vulgar  dram-drinker, 
philosophizing  instead  of  drinking.  Besides  this, 
they  have  increased  the  number  of  his  works,  by  the 
addition  of  a  posthumous  danghter  of  marriageable 
age.  You  liave  foreseen  that  all  this  stupid  and 
meaningless  talk,  these  bottles  of  sky-blue  wine,  these 
pointless  couplets,  is  to  wind-up  with  a  wedding, 
whereupon  Lantara  sings  that  he  will  henceforth  paint 
for  glory  and  for  Nature! 

Lantara  left  some  pretty  landscajDCS  and  a  great 
number  of  drawings.  These  drawings,  which  are 
still  sought  after,  are  in  black,  on  white  paper,  more 
frequently  on  blue  paper,  heightened  with  white ;  his 
moonlight  views,  the  greater  part  of  which  are  admir- 
able, are  all  on  blue  paper.  A  great  truthfulness  in  lo- 
calities, a  sky  of  marvellous  clouds,  agreeable  foliage, 
lightly-touched  distances,  and  a  haj^py  effect  of  light, 
are  the  distinguishing  features  of  these  designs.  In 
liis  pictures  we  see  that  no  one  was  ever  more  fully 
conversant  with  the  strange  caprices  of  nature.  He 
expressed  in  a  manner  that  could  not  admit  of  mistake, 
the  character  of  all  hours  of  the  dav.  His  morniuirs 
breathe  a  ravishing  freshness,  which  fills  you  with 
youth  ;  his  afternoons  an  amorous  excitement  which 
goes  to  your  heart;  his  evenings,  a  serene  melancholy 
which  induces  revery ;  his  rising  and  setting  suns 
and  his  moonliglits  bear  the  stainp  of  original  genius. 
He  excelled  in  aerial  pei-spective;  the  mist  of  his 
landscape  closely  approaches  that  of  Claude  Lorraine. 
He  likes  the  poetical  better  than  the  picturesque ;  his 
Nature  has  neither  deserts  nor  preci^^ices ;  scarce  do 
we  find,  here  and  there,  a  savage  ravine,  an  Aljjine 


HIS    LANDSCAPE    IN   THE   PALAIS    EOTAL,  349 

rock,  to  enhance  tlie  effect  of  his  leafy  woods,  his 
verdant  paths,  liis  mild  skies.  Lantara  had  never 
travelled,  unless  from  Montargis  to  Paris.  lie  had 
not  seen  fit  to  go  farther  in  search  of  K^ature.  How 
many  Flemish  painters  have  there  been  who  have 
produced  masteq^ieces  without  travelling  so  far,  and 
under  a  dull  sky. 

A  remarkable  landscape  in  the  Gallery  of  the 
Palais  Poyal,  proves  that  this  painter  smiled  in  spite 
of  himself,  in  the  most  savage  scenes.  Donkeys, 
goats,  and  cows,  are  passing  over  a  marshy  ground, 
bordered  by  gigantic  rocks,  ruined  temples,  and  de- 
cayed trees.  You  fancy  the  effect  is  mournful :  not 
at  all :  the  rocks  are  not  barren ;  the  raspberry-vine 
trails  its  spreading  tendrils  over  them,  the  hawthorn 
blooms  about  them ;  a  clump  of  trees  sway  to  and 
fro  on  the  summit ;  these  waters  charm  rather  than 
chill  you  ;  you  would  be  pleased  to  wet  your  feet  in 
the  steps  of  that  thoughtful  donkey  and  the  frisking 
little  goat.  Those  temples  in  ruins  almost  tempt  you 
to  inha]>it  them,  you,  who  are  neither  hermit  nor  cen- 
obite.  These  decayed  trees  are  only  awaiting  a  ren- 
ovating spring :  in  a  word,  this  melancholy  land- 
scape is  one  of  the  gayest.  The  sky  appears  to  ad- 
vantage, like  all  those  of  Lantara.  We  are  astonished 
with  reason,  that  this  strange  man  should  have  ac- 
quired the  art  of  painting,  solely  from  intercourse 
witl)  Nature.  Scarce  had  he  palette  in  hand,  before  he 
was  master  of  color.  His  first  landscapes  are  the  freest 
and  best.  lie  painted  from  recollection,  in  his  dismal 
retreat,  badly  Hghtcd,  without  fire,  without  books,  with- 
otit  friends.  AVHthout  Jacqueline,  never  would  pretty 
lijis  have  HMiilcil   on   his  talents  or  liis  heart.     Palo 

of 


350  I.ANTAKA. 

misery,  clesolate  loneliness,  the  noisy  tavern,  notliini^ 
Mas  able  to  stiile  in  liini  the  seed  of<i;enins  which  the 
Creator  had  ])lanted.  lie  was  born  a  landscape- 
painter;  he  was  a  landscape-painter  all  his  life,  as 
easily  as  another  is  a  stonecntter.  It  has  been  said 
that  he  owed  liis  talent  to  the  wine-shop.  IfLantara 
had  passed  the  time  he  lost  in  drinkinij;  in  stndy,  he 
miirht  have  been  a  second  Claude  Lorraine. 

Lantara  often  hit,  at  the  first  attempt  on  the  light 
and  shade,  the  sunbeam  passing  among  the  trees,  the 
waving  image  of  the  moon  in  the  rij)])ling  water.  He 
attained  surprising  elFects  by  simple  means,  lie  pro- 
duced groves  which  the  imagination  wanders  in, 
amid  the  perfume  of  strawbei-ries  and  mulberi-ies, 
amid  the  melody  of  singing-birds !  How  clear  are  his 
waters!  how  moist  his  banks!  how  his  horizons  blend 
witli  the  sky  !  His  weak  point  is  the  human  form  : 
When  it  was  necessary  to  introduce  one,  his  light 
touch  becomes  heavy  and  awkward  ;  his  men  breathe 
less  than  liis  trees ;  they  have  no  expression,  no  mo- 
tion; he  does  not  paint,  he  petrifies  the  figure.  He, 
therefore,  never  liked  to  place  a  personage  on  the 
scene.  However,  as  in  France,  a  landscape  can  only 
attract  attention  by  figures,  the  first  dauber  who  came 
along  filled  Lantara's  landscapes  with  horses,  cows, 
fishermen,  and  shepherds,  fancying  that  he  increased 
their  value  by  so  doiog.  It  was  almost  a  sacrilege! 
Creatures  are  not  out  of  place  on  the  eai'th.  A  cava- 
lier escaping  to  a  shelter  in  the  wood,  a  shepherd  who 
]>laits  rushes  on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  a  beggar 
drinking  at  a  fountain,  a  peasant'girl  crossing  the 
ford  on  her  donkey,  a  herd  of  dun  cows,  scattered 
over  a  meadow,  are  a  great  resource  f<»r  relief  and 


AT   MASS.  351 

perspective ;  but  when  tlie  landscape-painter  can  not 
paint  figures,  we  must  take  liini  as  he  is,  whether 
called  Claude  Lorraine,  Kuysdael,  or  even  Lantara, 
and  respect  his  works.  A  marquis  had  ordered  a 
landscape  from  Lantara. — "A  landscape  in  your  own 
style,  Monsieur  Lantara ;  follow  the  bent  of  your 
fancy ;  but  do  not  forget  a  church  and  a  vista." — 
Lantara  did  not  allow  the  landscape  to  be  w^aited  for 
long.  The  marquis,  astonished  at  the  beauty  of  the 
scene,  the  freshness  of  the  color,  the  simplicity  of  the 
treatment,  the  faithfulness  of  the  church,  but,  seeing 
no  figures,  said  to  him,  "Monsieur  Lantara,  you 
liave  forgotten  the  figures  in  your  landscape." — 
"Monsieur  the  Marquis,"  the  painter  naively  re- 
sponded, "they  are  at  mass." — The  marquis  had  the 
barbarity  to  rei)ly,  "  AVell,  I  will  take  your  picture 
when  tiiey  come  out." — Lantara  thus  unintentionally 
established  a  good  maxim  for  landscape-painters  who 
know  not  how  to  paint  figures.  IIow  many  landscapc- 
paintei'S  would  do  well  always  to  leave  their  figures  at 
mass ! 


LOUIS    XV. 


Lniiis  XIV.  was  hardly  buried  beneatli  the  ruing 
of  his  majesty,  when  all  the  joyous  passions  lifted 
their  heads  gayly  under  Philip  of  Orleans.  The  re- 
gency was  the  bold  prologue  of  the  reign  of  Louis 
XY.  A  bold  and  free  touch  would  be  necessary  to 
paint,  with  effect,  those  Saturnalia  of  the  genius  of 
France.  That  which  existed  in  j^erfection  under  the 
regency  was  frankness ;  every  one  walked  with  his 
head  erect,  surrounded  by  his  suite  of  vices ;  that 
mask  of  hypocrisy  that  had  concealed  all  the  faces 
of  the  court  under  Madame  de  Maintenon,  was  gay- 
ly torn  to  pieces,  and  trampled  under  foot ;  the  regency 
leaned  carelessly  upon  the  unsteady  shoulder  of  de- 
Ijaucher}',  crowning  it  with  roses,  and  singing  with 
it  the  loose  songs  of  the  tavern:  they  had  no  need 
of  telling  the  world,  that  they  were  bold  fellows  in 
those  days.  The  confessors  and  devotees  had  given 
way  to  the  rakes  and  courtesans.  Who  would  dare 
to  say  so  ?  but  we,  children  of  the  sajis  culottes  of 
1702,  and  of  the  soldiers  of  Napoleon,  would  have 
been  worthy  to  have  lived  under  the  regency.  .  We 
have  the  same  heart,  we  would  have  the  same  ge- 


THE   KEGENCY.  353 

nius,  if  we  had  enongli  of  it,  but  we  no  longer  wear 
the  same  mask.  Look,  too,  at  the  ideas  of  those 
times  ;  was  it  not  supposed  for  an  instant,  that  there 
would  be  a  social  renovation  at  the  death  of  Louis 
XIV.  ?  Did  not  the  people  act  toward  Louis  XIV. 
dead,  as  we  acted  toward  Charles  X.  living?  Louis 
XIV.  was  driven,  kicked  almost,  into  his  tomb  in 
the  clnu'ch  of  St.  Denis;  France,  after  having  paid 
dearly  enough  for  her  years  of  victory,  abandoned 
herself  to  the  priests,  being  humiliated  and  stifled 
bv  lier  nei<i;libors:  the  kino-  beins;  dead,  a  revolution 
broke  out  in  the  minds  of  the  people ;  the  St.  Simons 
and  Fouriers  of  that  dav  wished  to  elevate  France, 
but  it  was  only  a  dream,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  mo- 
ment. Fi-ance  remained  crouching  in  fetters,  the 
people  in  misery,  and  the  human  intellect  in  swad- 
dling clothes.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  tlicn  appeared, 
mockino;  at  the  nation.  lauo;hino:  at  it  without  shame, 
intoxicating  it  with  the  fumes  of  his  orgies.  The 
most  barefaced  portraits,  which  show  themselves 
along  with  his  in  this  living  picture  of  the  regency, 
are  those  of  the  Cardinal  Dubois,  the  Duke  de 
Tlichelieu,  MadamedePhalaris,  and  MadamedePara- 
l)ere.  In  studying  these  poi-traits  you  may  learn  all 
the  history  of  those  days.  The  mother  of  the  Duke 
of  Orleans  had  fancied  a  very  pretty  stuiy,  descrip- 
ti\'c  by  a  i)resentiment,  doubtless,  of  the  life  of  her 
son.  She  used  to  relate  that  the  fairies  had  been  in- 
vited to  be  present  at  her  confinement,  that  they  hail 
waved  the  enchanted  wand  over  the  cradle,  and  that 
each  one  had  given  her  son  a  talent,  so  that  he  was 
endowed  with  all  the  talents.  Put  by  a  mislia|>,  as 
always  haj'pens  in  stories,  an  old  fairy  had  been  for- 

30* 


35i  LOUIS  XV. 

jjotten,  \\li(»  liavinp;  disappeared  for  a  longtime  from 
tlu"  world,  had  been  quite  overlooked.  A'^exed  at 
the  neglect,  she  went  leaning  on  her  little  crutch, 
hut  when  shi;  had  arrived  all  the  other  fairies  had 
given  each  one  her  gift  to  the  infant.  More  and  more 
em-aged,  she  gave  him  the  ruinous  privilege  of  ren- 
dering of  no  avail  all  the  talents  he  had  received  from 
the  other  fairies.  She  did  more,  said  Madame  de 
Parabere,  after  having  one  day  listened  to  this  mater- 
nal story ;  she  added  a  vice  to  each  virtue :  this  was  the 
reason  why  the  duke  was  so  amiable  in  all  his  vice. 

What  a  charming  tutor  for  Louis  XV.,  this  re- 
gent, full  of  genius  and  gayety,  sui-named  Philip 
the  Gentle,  who  was  born  according  to  Yoltaire,  fur 
fleasure  and  the  Ji7i6  arts  /  who  gave  to  the  poet 
Dufresny  ten  thousand  louis,  because  he  was  a  de- 
scendant, as  he  himself  was,  from  Henry  lY.,  who 
ruled  the  evening,  after  supper,  in  the  comjiany  of  his 
friends  and  his  mistresses,  when  he  had  nothing  more 
to  do  or  to  say.  This  merry  regent  whose  wiiole  life 
was  a  burst  of  lauiihter,  who  died  without  anv  anxie- 
ty  about  death,  in  the  arms  of  the  beautiful  Phalaris, 
"  his  usual  confessor,"  according  to  the  si^'Ugs  of  the 
times. 

Love  took  Louis  XY.  by  surprise,  one  Api'il 
moniing,  as  he  was  pressed  to  the  somewhat  luke- 
warm heart  of  Madame  de  Parabere;  this  love  was 
almost  maternal,  almost  tilial,  but  was  notwithstand- 
ing penetrated  l)y  a  ray  rather  too  warm.  The  love 
of  budding  youth  is  like  an  April  sky :  at  one  time 
the  sky  is  perfectly  clear,  at  another  it  is  all  clouds 
and  showers.  The  love  of  woman  in  her  decline,  is 
like  a  rose  that  fades,  the  sun  that  sets,  its  perfume 


DYNASTY   OF   THE   PETTICOATS.  355 

is  more  choice,  its  glance  more  tender.  Tlie  king  of 
eishteen  rears  was  intoxicated  with  Madame  de 
Parabere  in  her  decline,  who  welcomed  him  without 
fear,  sighing  a  little  for  her  subdued  heart,  no  longer 
tunniltuous,  but  full  of  past  memories. 

This  love  did  not  keep  Louis  XY.  from  crying 
witli  fright,  when  he  heard  of  the  arrival  of  the 
princess,  that  he  was  to  marry.  This  was  getting  on 
rather  too  last  for  an  adolescent.  The  old  Cardinal 
de  Fleury  was  so  anxious  for  the  credit  of  his  king, 
that  he  bethouiz;ht  himself  (no  one  but  the  Cardinal  de 
Fleury  could  ever  have  thought  of  such  a  thing)  of 
having  in  the  bed-chamber  of  the  young  prince 
twelve  beautiful  pictures  in  the  style  of  the  times ; 
such  as  the  Birtli  of  Love^  the  Search^  the  Ravished 
Flower^  all  adorned  with  verses  after  the  pattern  of 
those  of  the  Abbe  Chaulieu  :  — 

Upon  the  freshness  I  fed 

Of  lips  that  only  half-close; 
Her  mouth  is  as  brightly  red, 

And  as  sweet  as  a  new  rose. 

See   what  abbes  and  cardinals  amused  themselves 
with  in  those  days  ! 

I  will  not  relate  ah  tlie  wanton  amours  of  Louis 
XV.  The  pretty  and  gallant  history  of  tlie  dynasty 
of  the  petticoats,  has  been  a  thousand  times  unveiled. 
"Why  repeat  how  Madame  de  Mailly,  the  Duchess 
de  Chateauroux,  the  Marchioness  de  Pompadour,  tlie 
Countess  Dubarry,  caused  to  l)loom  and  l)looin  again, 
every  year  of  that  amiable  poet's  life,  who  tlnvw  to 
them  his  royalty  as  a  plaything,  with  so  much  joy 
and  recklessness?     AV^hv  nfr.-icc   in   tjiis  well  known 


356  LOUIS  XV. 

picture  with  tliese  clianning  faces,  those  tlionsand 
other  beautiful  \v(.)inen  that  were  gathered  so  com- 
phicently  for  the  pleasures  of  Louis  XV.,  for  the 
anuiseinent  of  the  king  of  France  ?  The  scandalous 
chronicles  of  the  royal  palaces,  have  been  too  wan- 
tonly made  use  of:  I  resist  the  temptation  of  de- 
scril)ing  the  suppers  of  Choisj^,  the  mornings  at  the 
Trianon. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  pleasures,  the  king  was 
ennuyed.  It  appears  that  Louis  XY.  had  little  else 
to  do  than  to  become  ennuyed.  One  day  the  Duke 
de  Choiseul  said  to  him,  after  a  long  political  digres- 
sion :  "  The  peo])le  suffer,  sire."  He  answered  care- 
lessly, "  I  am  ennuyed." 

Louis  XY.  found  more  noble  interests  in  his  wars 
of  Alsace  and  Flanders.  Glory  tried  to  tear  him 
away  from  pleasure.  At  Fontenoy,  glory  marched 
by  his  side ;  but  Madame  de  Pompadour  marched 
on  the  other  side.  Soon  glory  was  vanquished  for 
ever.  In  war  as  at  court  he  was  a  poet,  who  gayly 
amused  himself  at  the  spectacle  by  the  side  of  his 
mistress ;  he  beheld  what  was  going  on  as  he  kissed 
the  hand  of  Madame  de  Chateauroux,  or  Madame 
de  Pompadour.  He  was  deficient  in  energy,  but  not 
in  courage  ;  he  had  even  a  disposition  to  greatness. 
Thus  at  Metz,  when  almost  dead,  he  said  to  the 
Count  d'Argenson :  "  Write  in  my  behalf  to  the 
Marshal  de  JSToailles,  that  while  they  carried  Louis 
XIII.  to  his  tomb,  the  Prince  of  Conde  gained  a 
battle." 

After  the  peace  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  the  gazettes 
began  their  political  tirades,  the  Encyclopedia  burst 
forth  with  a  great  noise,  the  parliament   and  the 


THE   REIGN    OF   SONG,  357 

clergy  w(!re  in  a  state  of  great  excitement.  There 
were  pamphlets  and  epigrams  without  end.  In  the 
midst  of  all  this  noise,  politicians  began  to  stammer, 
liberty  spoke  for  itself  now  and  then.  The  king  re- 
marked :  "  The  claps  of  thunder  [he  alluded  to  war] 
would  have  b(?en  better  than  all  these  scratchings  of 
pens."  It  is  not  just  to  accuse  him  of  not  having 
liked  men  of  letters  ;  he  did  not  like  those  political 
reasonei-s  who  wished  to  rule  France,  but  he  favored 
all  those  who  were  contented  with  singing  only. 
Apropos  to  the  reasoners  he  exclaimed  :  "  Ah  !  how 
I  pity  those  conscientious  liars."  In  order  to  console 
Louis  XV.  for  his  ignorance,  the  regent  often  re- 
marked to  him,  that  not  more  than  half-a-dozen 
truths  had  floated  since  the  deluge,  upon  a  sea  of 
falsehoods. 

He  was  completely  the  image  of  his  time.  He 
reposed  upon  the  labor  of  Louis  XIY ,,  poesy  reposed 
upon  the  masterpieces  of  the  great  age.  Louis  XY. 
played  with  royalty,  the  poets  played  with  poetry  ! 
The  French  Academy  was,  for  the  first  time,  under 
a  cloud.  As  Piron  remarked,  they  were  the  forty 
who  had  as  much  talent  as  four. 

In  those  days  instead  of  getting  enraged  they 
sang.  There  was  no  longer  any  satire,  or  rather 
satire  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  put  itself  under 
the  protection  of  song.  What  a  number  of  songs 
tlicre  were  against  the  Jansenists,  the  Revolutionists, 
the  Jesuits,  the  ministers  of  folly  ^  the  dynasty  of 
the  ]>Hticoats^  the  well-ldoved  hlng !  Finally,  as 
CamilleDesmoulins  remarked  at  a  later  lay,  France 
got  tired  of  singing. 

In  the  time  of   Louis  XV.,  nothing   was   taken 


358  LOTTis  XV. 

serion-Vy,  not  even  death,  in  spite  of  the  priest, 
prayer,  and  extreme  nnction.  Take  one  example  out 
of  a  thousand.  Ramcau,  on  his  death-bed,  wearied 
with  tlie  religions  ceremonies  of  the  cure  of  St.  Eu 
stace,  cried  out  angrily :  "  What  the  devil  are 
you  sin  ing  to  nie  there,  cure!  you  are  out  of 
tune." 

From  the  first  day,  or  rather  the  first  night,  of  the 
regency,  French  genius  was  only  dis2:>layed  at  the 
ex})ense  of  the  heart  and  common  sense.  Every  one 
had  that  kind  of  genius ;  it  was  the  epidemic  of  the 
Abderites,  grand  ladies,  citizens'  wives,  ladies'  maids, 
all  were  women  of  genius.  See  Marivaux's  com- 
edies. When  women  meddle  with  genius,  the  king- 
dom is  in  danger  ;  good  sentiments  disappear  under 
fine  words.  One  was  ready  to  bargain  away  Jier 
truth  for  a  sally  of  wit ;  another  her  virtue  for  an 
epigram.  The  genius  which  is  without  heart,  is  a 
terrible  guest  that  spoils  and  ruins  us.  God  only 
knows  the  injury  it  did  in  those  fine  times  of  the  re- 
gency. The  tender  gallantry  that  had  flourished  at 
the  court  of  Diana  of  Poictiers,  had  faded  within 
the  forgotten  pages  of  the  Cyruses  and  Clelias^  the 
sentimental  books  of  that  day.  The  gallantry  which 
flourished  beneath  the  glances  of  La  Parabere  and  La 
Pompadour,  was  worthy  of  the  amours  of  Crebillon 
called  the  Gay.  The  word  love  no  longer  meant 
passion,  hope,  memory  :  it  had  ])ecome  merely  a  syn- 
onyme  for  licentious  intrigue.  There  was  not  a  mad- 
rigal that  did  not  conceal  beneath  its  praises  some 
artful  design;  everything  was  laughed  at,  but  espe- 
cially the  true  emotions  of  the  heart :  people  were 
liardly  sincere  to  themselves.     I  had  foi-gotten  :  the 


PETi:S-MAITEES.  359 

more  nice  had  preserved  some  remembrance  of  the 
old  times;  ceYtampetits-maitres  perfumed  themselves 
with  tlie  same  perfume  as  their  favorite  beauties,  as 
ill  tlie  olden  times  the  kuio-hts  were  wont  to  wear  the 
colors  of  their  fair  ladies.  Thns  a  new  intrigue 
might  be  discovered  by  the  curious,  by  a  peculiar 
perfume.  An  amorous  confidence  often  began  with, 
"  Are  you  not  aware  that  the  duke  is  using  the  Cy- 
prus-powder; the  marchioness  is  fond  of  amber;  the 
abbe  powders  himself  with  the  same  as  the  wife  of 
the  mai-shal  ?"  The petits-maitres  might  be  seen  vary- 
ing their  perfumes  every  day,  in  order  to  pass  for 
being  men  of  success  in  their  intrigues.  They  did 
not  always  have  possession  of  the  mistresses  they 
published  in  this  way.  In  love,  the  mere  dream  of 
it  is  a  great  deal.  Fur  such  a  dream  what  ludicrous 
farces  were  ])layed !  One  would  order  liis  carriage 
for  a  mysterious  rendezvous ;  an  hour  afterward  he 
might  be  seen  on  foot,  secretly  coming  in  at  the 
l)ack-door  ;  he  would  reach  his  bed-chamber  by  the 
back-stairs ;  he  would  be  quietly  eating  his  cold  chicken 
while  his  equipage  drawn  up  at  the  corner  of  a  street 
wliere  a  famous  beauty  lived,  M'as  the  scandal  of  the 
whole  neighborhood.  Another  would  take  his  soli- 
tary supper  in  his  own  small  residence,  and  order 
guns  to  be  fired  off  in  order  to  announce  to  his  neigh- 
bors his  success.  As  for  the  women,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, they  also  made  use  of  these  melancholy  de- 
ceits ;  they  boasted  in  the  most  artless  manner  in  the 
world  of  having  atfjxcJied  to  their  cai\  some  charm- 
ing rake  who  had  tlie  credit  of  only  falling  in  love 
witli  Ix-autiful  women.  A  wonuin  who  had  had 
three  lovers  boasted  herself  a  philosopher  ;  t  jiat  was 


300  LOUIS  \y. 

cMiTving  philusopliy  rather  too  far.  A  disciple  (jf 
Newton  wrote  to  a  lord  of  li is  acquaintance,  in  1745: 
''I  return  witli  })leasure  to  a  country  wliere  the 
fasliion  does  not  oblige  a  man  to  abandon  a  woman, 
-vvhoi^e  oidy  fault  is  that  of  being  liis  wife,  and  to  live 
with  another  M-oman,  whose  only  merit  consists  in 
having  belonged  to  all  the  world." 

This  strange  gallantry  had  stupefied  all  hearts;  the 
talk  was  superficially  brilliant,  minds  shone  with  tin- 
sel, conversation  assumed  a  peculiar  jargon,  but  the 
heart  was  forgotten.  I  ask  you  whether  the  ro- 
mances of  Crebillon  called  the  Gay,  and  of  his 
]»upils,  were  adapted  for  the  cultivation  of  the  heart? 
The  devil  knows,  doubtless,  how  the  women  passed 
their  time.  If  they  went  to  church,  it  Avas  not  for 
the  sake  of  God.  The  women  rose  from  bed  toward 
evening,  put  on  their  hoops — they  had  sometimes 
good  reason  for  wearing  hoops;  —  they  daidjed  them- 
selves with  rouge  and  p)atches  —  in  those  days  there 
was  no  space  left  for  a  blush ;  —  and  put  on  their  loose 
robes  with  flowing  trains.  After  having  wasted  three 
or  four  Injurs  in  powdering  their  hair  and  laughing  at 
their  husbands,  they  went  out  to  listen  to  some 
fashionable  preacher,  or  to  behold  some  parade  a  la 
mode.  On  all  sides  was  heard:  ^^  A  h  /  sevalier, 
que  c^estjoW^ — (Ah  !  my  lord,  how  charming!)  (the 
letter  Z  was  used  at  every  chance,  in  lisping  it  the 
mouth  made  such  a  prett}',  smiling  j)out.)  After- 
ward they  would  go  to  some  sad  tragedy,  as  the  exe- 
cution of  Damiens  for  instance,  and  they  would  e*c 
claim — Madame  de  Preandeau  is  our  witness  — 
while  they  were  quartering  the  criminal,  by  drag- 
ging his  limbs  apart  with  hoi-ses  :  "^A  /  les  j?auvre6 


MEN   OF   FASHION.  361 

sevaux,  que  ze  les plains  !'''' — (The  poor  Lorscs,  how 
I  pity  them !) 

Upon  the  top  of  all  this,  they  would  go  to  sup  in 
the  choice  little  mansions  of  those  days.  Listen  to 
a  Larochefoucault  of  those  times  :  "  Nothing  is  more 
delightful  at  present  than  the  little  suppers  in  the 
little  mansions.  All  that  the  poets  have  ever  related 
about  those  places  consecrated  to  Cupid  and  his 
mother,  do  not  come  near  to  the  delight  that  these 
enchanting  places  offer.  It  is  no  longer  in  the  groves 
of  Paphos  or  Idalia,  that  pleasure  is  to  be  found. 
Our  little  mansions,  these  are  the  temples  of  Ama- 
thonta  !  it  is  here  that  she  has  her  altars,  her  priest- 
esses and  her  victims." 

In  those  days,  to  be  a  man  of  fashion,  it  was  ne- 
cessarv  to  besrin  by  makiuof  a  fool  of  one's  self.  Fash- 
ions  ciiange  in  France,  but  fools  are  stationary. 
IIdw  many  young  exquisites  of  1850  are  there  who 
will  recognise  themselves  in  the  exquisite  of  1750 ! 
"  On  the  first  Novemher^  I  am  in  the  country  be- 
cause it  is  not  the  thing  to  remain  in  toMni  during 
the  holydays.  It  is  supposed  that  I  am  with  the 
youthful  Louise^  wTiile,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  all 
alone  in  an  old  prison  of  a  house,  where  I  am  wearied 
to  death." — "  On  the  third  Hoveviher^  I  return  to 
Paris,  and  I  spread  the  report  that  I  have  been  de- 
lighted. The  wife  of  the  president  looked  at  me  very 
significantly  :  I  joined  her  party  at  whist ;  I  lost  in 
spite  of  the  finest  hand  in  tlie  world  :  I  kissed  her 
hand,  she  smiled." — "  On  the  eleventh  Noveinher^  I 
met,  at  the  Palais  Ilt>yal,  the  little  counsellor.  It 
was  necessary  ftr  me  to  keej)  up  my  reputation  with 
him  ;  I  did  s(»  at  the  I'xpense  f»f  tin;  reputation  of 

?A 


SG2  LODls    XV. 

all  the  beaiitil'ul  wonieii  in  the  Palais  Tloval.  Celise 
passed  me,  eoncealing  her  face  heliiml  her  tUii.  'See,' 
savs  I,  'she  is  hidiiii'  lierself:  this  is  on  account  of 
sonietliing  she  recollects.  1  am  ha[)j)y  to  see  that 
women  have  not  entirely  stifled  the  voice  of  shame.'" 

Whatever  the  heroides  of  Dorat  and  Colardean 
may  say,  some  of  the  amorous  e})istles  of  those  days 
were  anything  hut  elegiac.  The  Duke  de  Kichelieu 
answered,  by  way  of  consolation,  as  follows,  to  a 
young  viscountess  that  he  had  abandoned  :  "  Ma- 
dame, do  not  grieve  so,  yon  are  formed  to  be  the 
ha})}»iness  of  one  of  the  footmen  of  your  hotel ;  I 
advise  you  not  to  lose  any  time,  for  love  passes  away 
with  time." 

Love  metamorphoses  itself  often  in  France.  Some- 
times it  is  a  dreamer.  There  are  two  kinds  of 
dreamers,  the  dreamer  on  the  borders  of  the  Lignon, 
and  the  dreamers  upon  the  shore  of  Lake  Leman  : 
at  another  time  it  is  a  petit-maitre  like  Bouiflei"S  or 
Dorat ;  it  is  a  shepherd  playing  his  pipes  ;  it  is  a 
j)Tecieus6  ridicule, tliat  opens,  like  Mademoiselle  de 
Scudery,  her  ci'rch  (saloon),  her  alcove  (bed-cham- 
ber), her  recess  (boudoir),  to  people  of  leisure  ;  in  a 
word,  a  half  a  century  hardly  passes  in  France  be- 
fore love  changes  its  character.  Love  was  never  so 
unlike  itself  as  in  1750 ;  it  was  enough  to  make  the 
world  regret  the  bureaux  of  intellect  and  the  bureaux 
of  fashion  (as  they  were  affectedly  called)  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Scudery  ;  those  assaults  with  epigrams 
of  an  affected  conceit,  and  with  far-fetched  nuulri- 
gals  when  the  result  was  nonsense,  but  everything 
was  conducted  in  all  decency  and  honor,  in  the  sen- 
timental style  of  the  day. 


AKT.  363 

Art,  in  1T50,  was  only  a  plaything  like  love  ;  it 
v\^as  a  mere  warV)lino;  and  cooino;  of  birds.  Ask  the 
composers  of  musical  airs,  how  they  had  to  spice 
their  musical  ragouts ;  the  painters  of  pastels  how 
they  had  to  put  the  roses  into  the  cheeks ;  the  small 
poets  what  a  number  of  artificial  bouquets  and  pretty 
nothings  in  verse  they  had  to  get  up.  Art,  sacri- 
ficinor  its  maiestic  beautv,  followed  the  train  of  Ma- 
dame  de  Parabere,  all  painted,  perfumed,  wearing 
patches,  gorgeous  with  lace  and  ribands.  Hence  all 
those  poetical  bouquets  to  Chloris,  those  Graces  in 
deshabille,  those  licentious  madrigals,  those  uncere- 
monious musical  airs  of  the  little  operas,  those  Cupids 
whose  roses  even  crowned  their  torches.  One  day, 
France  had  wandered  so  far  from  Xature  and  all 
virtue,  that  poetry  and  painting,  as  if  from  a  chaste 
remembrance  of  earlier  times,  or,  perhaps,  in  order 
to  veil  in  history  the  scandals  of  their  day,  sang  and 
painted  the  pure  heaven  of  innocence ;  the  idyl 
flourished  again ;  but  in  spite  of  tlie  jnire  rays  and 
fi-esh  dews  which  came  from  Germany,  it  flourished 
badly.  The  breath  exhausted  in  pleasure,  was  want- 
ing for  poetry. 

I  am  not  now  speaking  of  Yoltaire,  or  of  any  of  the 
philos<»phers  ;  they  belong  to  the  eighteenth  century, 
l>ut  not  to  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.;  they  never  lived 
in  the  climate  of  the  court;  they  belong  to  the 
France  of  all  time,  not  to  the  France  of  Louis  XV. 
In  the  France  of  Louis  XV.,  when  a  poet,  bursting 
from  the  earth  with  ])ower  and  greatness,  too  proud 
to  become  the  buffoon  of  the  debauchei'ies  of  the 
boudoir,  iiad  elevated  liimself  Ujion  his  iTidigiiant 
pride,  as  u}ton  a  mountain,  fai'  above  all  that  sickly 


564  LOUIS  XV. 

^•(  n,M':U'on,  liis  only  asylum  was  misery  or  exile, 
whether  his  name  was  Gilbert  or  Jean- Jacques. 

The  France  of  Louis  XV.  was  Versailles.  Ver- 
sailles!  was  an  endless  carnival;  the  bishops  dis- 
guised themselves  as  bold  dragoons,  the  great  ladies 
as  prostitutes,  the  great  lords  as  lackeys.  But  were 
these  in  truth  disguises?  This  carnival  of  royalty 
and  nobility  has  had  its  Lent,  like  all  the  carnivals  in 
the  world.  On  the  14th  July,  1789,  royalty  and 
nol)ility  covered  themselves  with  ashes. 

The  atmosphere  of  Versailles  stilled  everything 
that  was  great  and  noble.  In  crossing  the  threshold 
of  the  palace,  the  men  laid  aside  their  dignity,  the 
women  their  virtue.  Louis  XV.,  according  to  a  maxim 
of  the  Duke  of  Richelieu,  his  moralist  m  gallantry,was, 
in  the  gayest  way  in  the  world,  "the  husl)aud  of  all 
wives  'but  his  own."  There  are  some  lines  of  the 
king  upon  this  subject  worthy  of  Voltaire.  They 
were  singing  about  Adam  at  one  of  his  suppers, 
when  Louis  XV.  turned  off  his  couplet  as  follows  :  — 

TO    AD AM  . 

One  wife  thou  hadst  with  thee, 

But  that  wife  she  was  thine  ; 
Here  many  wives  1  see, 

But  see  not,  her  that's  mine." 

IIow  many  queens  of  a  day  and  queens  of  a  night ! 
France  did  not  have  enough  duchesses  and  mar- 
chionesses to  supply  these  profanities.  It  was  neces- 
sary that  the  minister  of  the  ])leasures  of  the  king  — 
there  was  such  a  minister  in  those  days  —  should  lish 
for  pearls  in  the  sinks  of  poverty. 
The  palace  of  Versailles  had  an  echo.     Scandal 


CORRUPTION    OF   rRA.NCE.  865 

was  the  fashion  of  the  reign.  Scandal  burst  forth  in 
tlie  chateaux,  even  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  the 
convents.  IIow  many  young-  lords  there  were  who 
had  their  Parc-aux-Cerfs !  liow  many  young  nuns, 
who  imitated  the  charming  and  romantic  Louise 
of  Orleans!  In  the  cliateau,  the  organ  that  was  only 
accustomed  to  serious  and  doleful  music,  now  re- 
sounded only  for  Armidas  and  OrjjJieusj  an  ItaliaTi 
buffo-singer  mingled  his  voice,  all  terrestrial  as  it 
was,  Avith  the  voices  of  young  virgins.  In  the  oratory, 
painting  had,  without  ceremony,  installed  itself,  with 
its  mvtholojyical  bao;o;a2;e  and  arms;  the  Abbe  Chau- 
lieu  handled,  with  all  his  usual  carelessness  the 
Bihle  and  the  Imitation  of  Christ. 

The  fatal  breath  issuing  from  Versailles  passed 
throughout  France,  over  all  good  sentiments,  as  the 
storm  passes  over  the  flowers  and  the  harvest :  liero- 
ism,  greatness,  virtue,  religion,  all  corrupted,  died, 
were  blotted  out.  Iteligion  expired  amid  the  theo- 
logical discussions  of  the  church,  and  the  bloody  ex- 
liibitions  of  the  Convulsionaires.  Virtue  was  only  a 
despised  garment,  which  women  were  afraid  would 
hide  their  l)canty.  Greatness,  banished  from  the  court, 
from  the  palace  and  the  church,  greatness,  which 
van  never  die  in  France,  had  concealed  itself,  waiting 
for  better  times  in  the  retirement  of  the  provinces, 
in  the  shop  of  the  artisan,  under  the  thatcli  of  the 
laliorer,  whence,  later,  in  the  hour  of  danger,  it  was 
seen  coming  forth  so  often,  to  rule  tlie  tribune,  and 
to  command  our  armies.  In  a  word,  heroism,  the 
old  French  heroism,  having  left  the  field  of  battle 
for  the  ]H'rfuined  boudoir,  weakened  itself  with  friv- 
(;lous  jdeasures  and  frivolous  occu})ations.     Cojonela 

31* 


366  L(  jis  XV. 

eniLroidereil  tapestry. — "All  our  warridi-sarc  inere- 
]y  coxcombs,"  said  Monsieur  de  Coigu_y.  The 
sword  was  no  longer  used  to  avenge  insulted  Ix'uoi-, 
l>ut  to  protect  the  smile  and  the  lap-dog  of  a  mar- 
chioness. "While  they  were  avenging  a  dog  with  their 
swords,  they  were  avenging  eacli  other  on  the  field 
of  battle  with  batons  merely.  The  inheritors  of  Tu- 
renne  and  Conde  went  away  to  the  wars  for  pastime, 
no  longer  animated  with  a  noble  love  of  France. 
Thus  the  enemy  that  beat  the  French  found  on  the 
iield  of  battle,  instead  of  those  brave  leaders  that  ap- 
peared at  a  later  day,  actors,  parrots,  parasols,  wigs, 
hair-powder,  jDcrfumery,  and  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  a  fine  lady.  This  was  the  reason  that  the  king 
of  Prussia  beat  the  French  at  Eosbach ;  this  is  the 
reason  that  tlie  seven  years'  war  was  so  humiliating 
to  France. 

The  court  of  France  had  been  until  then  the  irrand 
theatre  of  the  country ;  it  was  above  all  there  that 
the  great  political  and  human  drama  was  enacted. 
But  under  Louis  XY.  tlie  drama  is  transformed  into 
a  show;  the  shows  of  the  fairs  are  quite  as  good. 
The  audience,  until  then  silent,  begins  to  hiss  and 
make  a  disturbance.  The  scene  changes;  the  drama 
is  played  out  by  the  audience;  the  old  theatre  is 
turned  into  an  antechamber  and  dressing-room;  with- 
out tlie  Cardinal  de  Bernis  and  the  Duke  de  Biche- 
lieu,  Madame  do  Pompadour  and  Madame  Dubarry, 
it  would  never  be  heard  of  again. 

The  national  character  was  less  resi)ected  than  ever. 
The  court  affected  to  be  English,  and  the  army  to  be 
Prussian.  No  one  desired  to  be  a  Frenchman  any- 
where.   The  whole  world  changed  character.    States- 


HIS    LOVE   OF   EASE.  367 

men  became  small  poets  ;  poets  politicians  ;  bankers 
and  farmers-general  became  aristocrats ;  the  great 
nobles  became  little  abbes  and  farmers.  Everything 
nnderwent  decomposition:  the  chemistry  which  took 
its  rise  in  the  eighteenth  century  is  the  symbol  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  The  priests  preached  merely 
like  Christians ;  the  magistrates  laughed  at  the  citizen- 
like dignity  and  sobriety  of  their  predecessors.  Min- 
isters played  like  children  with  power,  and  power 
fell  from  liand  to  hand  into  the  hands  of  the  people. 
Louis  XY.,  in  his  careless  ease,  gave  time  to  liberal 
opinion  to  make  full  headway.  During  peace  the 
approaching  steps  of  liberty  could  be  heard.  Liberty, 
that  had  so  often  set  her  foot  in  France  to  no  purpose, 
now  found  all  the  approaches  favorable.  In  this 
way  Louis  XV.  did  as  much  for  Liberty  as  the  whole 
army  of  the  philosophers.  He  was  dignified,  but  he 
did  not  like  dignity.  Nothing  annoyed  him  more 
than  the  grand  court  fetes,  where  he  was  obliged 
to  enact  the  farce  of  royalty.  He  loved  solitude 
and  cpiiet.  lie  used  to  say,  as  he  returned  to 
the  Trianon  :  "  Here  I  am  at  last,  in  retirement  from 
the  world." — He  liardlv  cared  to  know  what  was 
passing  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  park, — "  Let 
the  ministers  batter  each  other  with  the  weapons 
of  the  church  and  the  parliament;  let  the  Parisians 
make  songs  about  everything,  even  about  the  mar- 
cliioness ;  it  is  all  the  same  to  me.  I  have  laid  my 
sceptre  at  the  door,  or  rather  at  your  feet;  is  it  not 
So,  marchioness?  let  your  will  1)C'  done.""  —  And 
Madame  dc  Pompadoui',  taking  up  the  sce}>tre, 
amused  herself  with  worrying  at  her  caprice  the 
clergy  or  the-  parliament,  the    I'rnssians  or  the  song- 


&GS  LOUIS    XV. 

writers.  During  tlio  pomp  of  the  public  fetes.  Louia 
XV.,  who  always  suffered  from  ennui,  was  unmoved 
and  taciturn ;  in  private  life  he  was  the  amiable  poet^ 
gay  with  love,  animated  with  that  smile  (.»f  Iia})pines8 
that  La  Tour  has  so  skilfully  ]M)rtrayed.  lie  allowed 
himself  tolerably  often  to  exhibit  evidences  of  wit. 
Thus,  one  day,  the  courtly  artist  just  spoken  of  took 
it  into  his  head,  while  painting  the  king's  portrait,  to 
discourse  about  affairs  of  state :  "  It  must  be  con- 
fessed, sire,  we  have  no  navy." — Louis  XY,  recalled 
the  attention  of  the  artist  to  his  pastel  by  the  follow- 
ing answer :  "  Have  you  not  Vernet,  Monsieur  La 
Tour?" — Another  time,  the  Count  de  Lauraguais 
was  speaking  in  his  presence,  as  if  it  was  an  affair 
of  the  greatest  importance,  of  his  voyage  to  England. 
— "And  what  did  you  learn  by  it,  if  you  please?" 

said    the   king.  —  "Sire,    I   learned    to   think " 

"About  horses,"  replied  the  king  annoyed  by  his  os- 
tentation. Thus,  French  genius,  not  knowing  what 
else  to  do,  fell  to  making  mere  witticisms.  The 
Marquis  de  Bievre  wrote  a  tragedy  all  in  puns,  upon 
Vercingetorix. 

It  is  too  well  known  that  the  king  had  a  seraglio 
at  Vei*sailles,  the  PaTc-awx-Cerfs.  The  chroniclers 
liave  written  a  thousand  scandalous  accounts  of  it, 
in  which  the  truth  is  concealed  beneath  innumerable 
romances.  It  is  pretty  well  known  that  the  poor  giils 
imprisoned  there  took  their  Urst  lessons  of  reading  in 
the  Fahles  of  La  Fontaine  and  the  poeins  of  Chaulieu. 
Their  bedchambers  were  adorned  with  the  most  pro- 
fane pictures,  with  that  of  the  king  to  begin  with. 

Louis  XY.  thus  passed  his  time:  he  never  left  this 
grove,  embowered  amid  tliat  terresti'ial  volujituous- 


nis  STATUE.  369 

ness  of  wliicli  St.  Augustine  speaks.  Sucli  debauchery 
iniiz;lit  be  pardoned  Louis  XV.  the  poet,  but  Louis 
XV..  kino-  of  France!  When  Bouchardon  made 
Louis  XV.'s  statue,  he  deceived  himself,  or  he  wished 
to  deceive  the  beholders,  in  draping  the  king  with  a 
Iloman  toga,  in  crowning  his  forehead,  unmarked 
witl)  thought,  with  a  crown  of  laurel,  in  arming  his 
powerless  hand  with  the  sceptre  of  an  empire.  Louis 
XV.  should  have  been  crowned  with  roses ;  his  hand 
should  have  held  a  glass,  or  grasped  a  woman's 
waist;  his  lips  enlivened  with  a  careless  smile;  and 
for  drapery  he  should  have  worn  his  embroidered 
vest  and  liis  silk  breeches.  Certainly,  if  the  artist 
liad  done  this,  the  heroes  of  1792  would  never  have 
destroyed  the  statue ;  they  would  have  been  satisfied 
with  a  laugh  at  it. 

But  why  slander  at  the  present  day  this  irreligious 
but  witty  reign,  this  reign  so  reckless  and  graceful, 
this  merry  reign^^strewed  with  faded  and  decaying 
roses  ?     lias  not  the  blood  of  1793  washed  all  that 
cpiite  out?     "Why  arm  ourselves  against  that  delight- 
ful half-century,  when  the  heart,  with  so  much  gayety, 
folly,  and  disdain,  was  abandoned  to  voluptuousness, 
the  head  to  intoxication,  and  reputation  to  all  kinds 
of  scandal  ?     Why  contend  seriously  against  the  or- 
gies  of  wornout  lords,   careless   poets,   abandoned 
marchionesses,  and  indolent  abbes?     Because,  while 
tliese  merry  roues  were  amusing  themselves  so  de- 
lightfully, France,  bent  beneath  tlic  yoke,  and  en- 
slaved by  debauchery,  would   havt;  fallen  dnnik  at 
the  feet  of  the  stranger,  had   imt  her  m<»sl   Immble 
children,  those  that  liad  been  ground  down  by  slavery 
untl   iiii.->ei'v,  riben   in  a  day  of  indigMulioii,  to  savy 


370  LOUIS  XV. 

lier  from  the  bewildered  hand  of  her  kiiiiis,  and  tlie 
crushinii;  foot  of  her  enemies. 

Before  France  had  fallen,  however,  this  royalty 
ot'  women  and  courtiers  would  have  fallen  of  it- 
self at  the  feet  of  the  people,  if  the  wornout  people 
had  not  at  the  cry  of  the  philosophers,  lifted  their 
iron  arm,  to  give  it  the  last  blow.  Insulted  by 
neiirhborinii;  nations,  tremblinii;  before  that  France 
which  it  had  ruined,  its  last  hour  had  come;  Liberty 
knocked  at  the  gate  of  the  Louvre. — "  Do  not  open 
it,"  said  this  tottering  royalty,  slumbering  in  the 
arms  of  voluptuousness.  But  Liberty  Itroke  down 
the  gate,  Liberty  overturning  in  its  passage  the  whole 
band  of  courtiers,  threw  mercilessly  the  throne  of 
France  out  of  the  window,  that  throne  which  was 
only  the  throne  of  licentiousness. 

Li  succeeding  to  a  royalty  beset  with  storms, 
Louis  XVI.  became  its  martyr.  lie  should  have  had 
heroic  energy  ;  he  only  had  virtue.  Of  what  use  is 
virtue  in  a  storm,  except  to  die  well?  Louis  XVI. 
died  well :  that  is  his  whole  life  ! 

Notwithstanding  the  age  grew  old,  it  had  com- 
menced like  a  ha]){)y  youth  of  fortune  who  throws  his 
money  out  of  the  window  and  his  heart  to  the  first- 
comer.  It  was  ashamed  of  the  follies  of  its  youth;  it 
wanted  retirement  from  ])leasure.  Too  much  of  a 
Bcoffer  to  be  religious,  it  welcomed  philosophy  as 
if  it  had  been  the  promised  land.  It  swept  away 
with  its  foot  its  spangles  and  its  tinsel.  Truth  was 
raised  upon  the  altar.  She  had  for  her  temple  the 
theatre,  the  romance,  the  encyclo]iedia;  she  had  f<»r 
her  high-priests  V(jltaire,  Jean-Jacques,  Diderot. 
Lf)uis   XV.,  who  was  near  his  death,  survived   his 


DECAY    OF    FRANCE.  371 

reign.  He  was  no  longer  king  by  the  grace  of  God, 
since  he  liad  looked  upon  the  fall  of  religion  without 
stretching  out  a  hand  to  protect  it.  France,  that 
Louis  XIV.  had  so  well  united,  in  order  to  strengthen 
his  dominion,  Avas  again  divided  in  favor  of  every  one ; 
all  that  remained  to  Louis  XY.was  the  Parc-aux-Cerfs, 
the  "  pillow  of  his  debauchery,"  as  Chateaubriand 
has  said.  The  people,  more  suffering  and  miserable 
than  ever,  began  to  complain  in  threats ;  but  Louis 
XY.  heard  notliing  but  the  songs  of  Versailles.  Com- 
merce declined  under  its  hinderances ;  the  taxes 
ruined  agriculture;  rising  industry,  checked,  sought 
more  favorable  lands ;  priests  and  courtiers  settled 
upon  France  like  crows,  in  never-ceasing  flocks;  the 
forces  were  beaten  on  land  and  sea;  titles  of  nobility 
that  were  a  dishonor  were  conferred  only  on  coward- 
ice and  intrigue ;  the  honors  of  the  Bastile  and 
of  exile  were  conferred  upon  genius  and  courage.  In 
a  word,  contempt  without,  contempt  within,  misery 
and  slavery :  this  is  the  dark  background  of  the 
picture  of  this  pretty  reign,  so  gay  and  rose-colored 
at  first  view.  And  how  did  this  decay  of  France 
and  this  agony  of  royalty  affect  Louis  XV.?  He 
was  near  his  last  hour,  and  he  saw  nothing  beyond 
the  liorizon  of  his  own  death. — "After  me  the  del- 
uge," said  Louis  XV.     It  was  a  deluge  of  blood ! 


MADEMOISELLE  DE   CAMARGO. 


Mademoiselle  de  Camaego  almost  came  into  the 
world  dancing.  It  is  related  that  Gretr}^,  when  he 
was  scarcely  four  years  of  age,  had  an  idea  of  musical 
tunes.  Mademoiselle  Camargo  danced  at  a  much 
earlier  age.  She  was  still  in  arms  Avhen  the  combined 
airs  of  a  violin  and  a  hautboy  caught  her  ear.  She 
jumped  about  full  of  life,  and  during  the  whole  time 
that  the  nmsic  was  playing,  she  danced,  there  is  no 
other  word  for  it,  keeping  time  with  great  delight. 
It  must  be  stated  that  she  was  of  Spanish  origin. 
She  M-as  born  at  Brussels,  the  15th  of  April,  1710, 
of  a  noble  family,  that  had  supplied  several  cardinals 
to  the  sacred  college,  and  is  of  considerable  dis- 
tinction in  Spanish  history,  both  ecclesiastical  and 
national.  Her  name  was  Marianne.  Her  mother  had 
danced,  but  with  the  ladies  of  the  court,  for  her  own 
])leasure,  and  not  for  that  of  others.  Her  father, 
Ferdinand  de  Cupis  de  Camargo,  was  a  fi-aidc  Spanish 
noble,  that  is  to  say  he  was  poor ;  he  lived  at  Brus 
sels,  upon  the  crumbs  of  the  table  of  the  Prince  de 
Ligne,  without  counting  the  debts  he  made.  His 
family,  which  was  (juite  nmnerous,  was  brought  up 


A   DAXCLXG    GmL.  3T3 

by  the  grace  of  God ;  the  father  frequented  the 
tavern,  trusting  to  the  truth  that  there  is  a  God  that 
rules  over  children  I 

Marianne  was  so  pretty  that  the  Princess  de  Ligne 
used  to  call  her  her  fairy  daughter.  Light  as  a 
Lird,  she  used  to  spring  into  the  elms,  and  jump 
from  branch  to  branch.  No  fawn  in  its  morning 
gayety  had  more  capricious  and  easy  movements ;  no 
deer  wounded  by  the  huntsman  ever  sprang  with 
more  force  and  grace.  When  she  was  ten  years  old, 
the  Princess  de  Ligne  thought  that  this  pretty  wonder 
belonged  of  right  to  Paris,  the  city  of  wonders,  Paris, 
where  the  opera  was  then  displaying  its  thousand 
and  thousand  enchantments.  It  was  decided  that 
^Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  should  be  a  dancing-girl 
at  the  opera.  Her  father  objected  strenuously : 
"  Dancing-girl !  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman,  a  grandee 
of  Spain  I" — "Goddess  of  dance,  if  you  please,"  said 
the  Princess  of  Ligne,  in  order  to  quiet  hira.  He  re- 
signed himself  to  taking  a  journey  to  Paris  in  the 
prince's  carriage.  He  arrived  in  the  style  of  a  lord 
ut  the  house  of  Mademoiselle  Prevost,  whom  the 
poets  of  the  day  celebrated  under  the  name  of  Terp- 
fciichore.  She  consented  to  give  lessons  to  Marianne 
de  Camargo.  Three  months  after  his  departure,  ^L 
de  Camargo  returned  to  Brussels,  with  the  air  of  a 
conqueror.  Mademoiselle  de  Prevost  had  ^n-edicted 
that  his  daughter  would  be  his  glory  and  his  for- 
tune. 

After  having  danced  at  a  fete  given  by  the  Prince 
de  Ligne,  Marianne  de  Camargo  made  her  iirst  ap- 
l>earance  at  the  Jjrusscls  theatre,  where  she  reigned  for 
three  yearb  as  lir.-t  ihumcu-sr.    IKi-  Iriie  theatre  was  not 

32 


374:  MADEMOISELLE    DE   CAMARGO. 

there;  in  spite  of  lier  trimnph  ut  l>nissels,  her  iiiuigi- 
iiatioii  ahvays  ciiri-ied  lier  to  Paris;  notwithstciiuliiig 
when  she  quitted  Brussels  she  went  to  llouen.  Finally, 
afU'r  a  long  residence  in  that  city,  she  was  permitted 
to  nuike  her  first  appearance  at  the  opera.  It  was  on 
the  5th  of  May,  1726,  for  the  ftiinous  day  of  her  de- 
but has  not  hecn  forgotten,  that  she  a])peared  with 
all  the  hrilliancy  of  sixteen  upon  the  first  stage  in 
the  world.  Mademoiselle  Prevost,  already  jealous, 
from  a  presentiment  pei'haps,  had  advised  her  to 
make  her  first  appearance  in  the  Characters  of  the 
Dance^  a  step  almost  impossible,  which  the  most 
celebrated  dancers  hardly  had  dared  to  attempt,  at 
the  height  even  of  their  reputation.  Mademoiselle 
de  Camargo,  who  danced  like  a  faii-y,  surpassed  all 
her  predecessors  ;  her  tiiuinph  was  so  brilliant  that 
on  the  next  day  all  the  fashions  took  their  name  after 
her:  hair  a  la  Camargo^  dresses  a  la  Camargo^ 
sleeves  a  la  Camargo.  All  the  ladies  of  the  court 
imitated  her  grace;  there  were  not  a  few  that  would 
have  liked  to  have  copied  her  face 

I  have  not  told  all  yet:  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo 
was  made  by  love  and  for  love.  She  was  beautiful 
and  pretty  at  the  same  time.  There  could  be 
n(jfhing  so  sweet  and  impassioned  as  her  dark  eyes, 
nothing  so  enchanting  as  her  sweet  smile?  Lancret, 
Pater,  J.  B.  Vanloo,  all  the  painters  that  were  then 
celebrated,  tried  to  portray  her  charming  face. 

On  the  second  night  of  Mademoiselle  de  Carnargo's 
appearance  on  the  stage,  there  were  twenty  duels  and 
fpuiri-els  without  end  at  the  door  of  the  opera ;  every 
one  wanted  to  get  in.  ]\rademoiselle  Prevost,  alarmed 
at  such  a  triumph,  intrigued  with  such  success  that 


■  QUEEN    OF   THE    OPERA.  375 

IMadeinoiselle  cle  Camargo  was  soon  forced  to  fall 
1>ack  to  the  position  of  a  mere  figurante.  She  and 
lier  admirers  had  reason  to  be  indignant.  She  was 
ol)lio'ed  to  resio-n  herself  to  danciiio-  nnobserved  with 
tlie  company.  But  she  was  not  kmg  in  avenging  her- 
self with  effect.  One  day,  while  she  was  dancing 
with  a  group  of  demons,  Diimonlin,  called  the 
devil,  did  not  make  his  appearance  to  dance  his  solo, 
wlien  the  mnsicians  had  struck  np,  expecting  his  en- 
trance. A  sndden  inspiration  seizes  Mademoiselle  do 
Camargo;  she  leaves  tlie  oiher  fif/io^antes,  she  springs 
forward  to  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  improvises 
Dumoiilin's  pas  de  ,senl,  bnt  with  more  eifect  and 
capricious  variety.  Applause  re-echoed  throughout 
the  theatre.  Mademoiselle  de  Prevost  swore  that 
Bhe  would  ruin  her  youthful  rival;  but  it  was  too 
late.  Terpsichore  was  dethroned.  Mademoiselle  de 
Camargo  was  crowned  on  that  day  queen  of  the 
<)]>era,  al)solute  queen,  whose  power  was  unlimited  ! 
She  was  the  first  who  dared  to  make  the  discovery 
that  lier  petticoats  were  too  long.  Here  I  will  let 
Gi'imm  have  his  say :  "This  useful  invention,  which 
puts  the  amateur  iii  the  way  of  forming  an  intelligent 
judgment  of  the  legs  of  a  dancing-girl,  was  thought 
at  that  time  to  be  the  cause  of  a  dangerous  schism. 
The  Jansenists  of  the  pit  exclaimed  heresy,  scandal ; 
and  were  o]ip<»scd  to  the  shortened  petticoats.  The 
Molinists,  on  the  contrary,  held  thattliis  innovation 
was  in  character  with  the  spiritof  the  j>riniitive  church, 
which  was  opposed  to  the  sight  of  pii-ouettes  and 
pigeon-wings,  embarrassed  by  the  length  ol"  a  jxtti- 
coat.  The  Sorliunnc  of  the  ojx'i-a  liad  lor  ji  long 
time  great  troulde    in    establishing    the   wliolesome 


370  MADEMOISELLE   DE   CAMAUGO. 

doctrine  on  tins  point  of  cliscii)linc,  wliicli  so  ninct 
divided  the  faithful." 

Monsienr  Ferdinand  de  Camaro-o  2;rew  old  witii  a 
severe  anxiety  about  the  virtue  and  the  salary  of  lii? 
dauiihter:  he  only  preserved  the  salary.  Intoxicated 
Avith  her  triuin})h,  Mademoiselle  de  Caniargo  listened 
too  willingly  to  all  the  lords  of  the  court  that  frequented 
the  company  of  the  actresses  behind  the  scenes ;  it 
would  have  been  necessary  for  the  king  to  appoint  an 
historiograjjher,  in  order  to  record  all  the  passions 
of  this  danseuse.  There  was  a  time  when  all  the 
world  was  in  love  with  her.  Every  one  swore  by 
Camargo ;  every  one  sang  of  Camargo ;  every  one 
dreamed  about  Camargo.  The  madrigals  of  Voltaire 
and  of  the  gallant  poets  of  tliat  gallant  era  are  not 
forgotten. 

However,  tiie  glory  of  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo 
was  extinguished  by  degrees.  Like  fashion  that  had 
patronised  her,  she  passed  away  by  degrees,  never 
to  retui-n.  When  she  insisted  upon  retiring,  although 
she  was  only  forty  years  of  age,  no  one  thought 
of  preventing  her:  she  was  hardly  regretted.  There 
was  no  inrpiiry  made  as  to  whither  she  had  gone ; 
she  was  only  spoken  of  at  rare  intervals,  and  then  she 
was  only  alluded  to  as  a  memory  of  the  past.  She 
had  become  something  of  a  devotee,  and  very  chari- 
table. She  knew  b}'  name  all  the  poor  in  her  neigh- 
borliood.  She  occasionally  was  visited  by  some 
of  the  notabilities  of  a  past  da}',  forgotten  like  her- 
self. 

In  the  Amusements  of  lAe  Heart  and  M'l.nd^  a 
collection  designed,  as  is  well  known,  to  form  the 
mind  and  the  lieart.  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  ia 


A  VISIT.  377 

charo;ed  witli  havino-  had  a  thousand  and  more  lovei"s! 
Without  giving  the  lie  to  this  accusation,  can  I  not 
prove  it  false  bv  relating,  in  all  its  simplicity,  a  fact 
which  proves  a  profound  passion  on  her  part?  A 
pretty  woman  may  dance  at  the  oj^era,  smile  upon 
numberless  admirers,  live  carelessly  from  day  to 
day,  in  the  noisy  excitement  of  the  world  ;  still, 
there  will  be  some  blessed  hom's,  when  the  heart, 
though  often  laid  waste,  will  flourish  again,  all  of  a 
sudden.  Love  is  like  the  sky,  which  looks  blue, 
even  when  reflected  in  the  stream  formed  by  the 
storm.  It  is  thus  that  love  is  occasionally  found 
pure  in  a  troul)led  heart.  But,  moreover,  this  serious 
passion  of  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  was  experienced 
by  her  in  all  the  freshness  of  her  youth. 

One  morning,  Grimm,  Pont-de-Yeyle,  Duclos, 
Ilelvetius,  presented  themselves,  in  a  gay  mood, 
at  the  humble  residence  of  the  celebrated  dancer. 
She  was  then  living  in  an  old  house  in  the  Tiue 
Saint-Tliomas-du-Louvre.  An  aged  serving-woman 
opened  the  door. — "  "We  wish  to  see  Mademoiselle 
de  Camargo,"  said  Ilelvetius,  who  had  great  difti- 
culty  in  keeping  his  countenance.  The  old  woman 
led  them  into  a  parhjr  that  was  furnished  with  pecu- 
liar and  grotesque-looking  furniture.  The  wainscoting 
was  covered  with  ])astels  representing  IMademoisclle 
de  Camargo  in  all  her  grace,  and  in  her  dilferent  char- 
acters. l>ut  the  parlor  was  not  adorned  l)y  her  por- 
traits only :  there  was  a  Christ  on  the  Mount 
of  Olivee,  a  Maqdalen  at  the  Tomh^  a  Veiled  Virgin^ 
a  VeivuM^  the  Three  Graces^  some  Cuj>uls,  half-con- 
cealed beneath  some  rosaries  and  sacred  relics,  and 
Made nnas^  covered  with  trophies  from  the  opera! 


378  MADKMOISELE   DE    CAMARGO. 

The  goddess  of  the  place  did  not  keej)  them  a  long 
time  Wiiiting- :    a  door  opened,  halt'-a-do/.en  dogs  of 
every  variety  of  breed  sprang  into  the  parlor;  it  must 
be  said,  to  the  praise  of  Mademoiselle  de  Camarw), 
that  these  were  not  lap-dogs.     She  appeared  behind 
them,  carrying  in  her  arms  (looking  like  a  fur  muff)  an 
Angora  cat  of  fine  growth.    As  she  had  not  followed 
the  fashion  for  ten  years  or  more,  she  appeared  to 
liave  come  from  the  other  world. — "Yon  see,  gentle- 
men," pointing  to  her  dogs,  "all  the  court  I  have  at 
present,  but  in  truth  those  courtiers  there  are  well 
worth  all  others.     Here,  Marquis  !  down,  Duke  !  lie 
down,  Chevalier!     Do  not  be  offended,  gentlemen, 
that  I  receive  you  in  such  company :  but  how  was  I 
to  know? . . .  ." — Grimm  first  spoke. — "You  will  ex- 
cuse, mademoiselle,  this  unaimounced  visit  when  you 
know  the  important  object  of  it." — "  I  am  as  curious 
as  if  I  were  only  twenty  years  old,"  said  Madem.oi- 
selle  de  Camargo ;    "  but,  alas  !   when  I  was  twenty, 
it  was  the  heart  that  was  curious ;   but  now,  in  the 
winter  of  life,  I  am  no  longer  troubled  on  that  score." 
— "The   heart   never  grows  old,"    said    Ilelvetius, 
bowing. — "  That  is  a  heresy,  sir :  those  only  dare  to 
advance  such  maxims  who  have  never  been  in  love. 
It  is  lov^e  that  never  grows  old,  for  it  dies  in  child- 
hood.    But  the  heai-t — "  — "You  see,  madame,  tliat 
your  heart  is  still  young ;   Avhat  you  have  just  said 
proves  that  you  are  still  full  of  fire  and  inspiration." 
— "Yes,  yes,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo,  "you 
are  perhaps  right;   but  when  the  hair  is  gray  and 
the  wrinkles  are  deep,  the  heart  is  a  lost  treasure ;  a 
coin  that  is  no  longer  current." — While  saying  this, 
she  lifted  up  Marquis  by  his  two  paws,  and  kissed 


MEMOKY    OF    THE    PAST.  379 

liim  on  the  head :  Marquis  was  a  fine  setter-dog, 
with  a  beautiful  spotted  skin. — "  Thev,  at  least,  will 
love  me  to  the  last.  But  it  seems  to  me  we  are  talk- 
iaof  nonsense;  have  we  nothino-  better  to  talk  about? 
Come,  gentlemen,  I  am  all  attention  !" 

The  visiters  looked  at  each  other  with  some  em- 
barrassment; they  seemed  to  be  asking  of  each 
'other  who  was  to  speak  first.  Pont-de-Veyle  collected 
his  thoughts,  and  spoke  as  follows  :  "  Mademoiselle, 
we  have  been  breakfasting  together ;  we  had  a  gay 
time  of  it,  like  men  of  spirit.  Instead  of  bringing 
before  us,  as  the  Egyptians  in  olden  times,  mummies, 
in  order  to  remind  us  that  time  is  the  most  precious 
of  all  things,  we  called  uj)  all  those  gay  phantoms 
which  enchanted  our  youth :  need  I  say  that  you 
were  not  the  least  charming  of  them?  who  did  not 
love  you  ?  who  did  not  desire  to  live  with  you  one 
hour,  even  at  the  expense  of  a  wound  ?  Happiness 
never  costs  too  much — "  Mademoiselle  Caraargo  in- 
terrupted the  speaker:  "  O  gentlemen,  do  not,  I  beg, 
blind  me  with  the  memory  of  the  past;  do  not  awaken 
a  buried  passion !  Let  me  die  in  peace!  See,  the  tears 
are  in  my  eyes!" — The  visiters  affected  looked  with  a 
certain  degree  of  emotion  at  the  jjoor  old  lady  who 
had  loved  so  much. — "It  is  strange,"  said  Ilelvetius 
t(j  his  neighbor,  "  we  came  here  to  laugh,  but  we  are 
travelling  quite  another  road;  however,  I  must  say, 
nothini;  could  be  more  ludicrous  than  such  a  carica- 
ture,  if  it  were  not  of  a  woman." — "Proceed,  sir," 
said  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  to  Pont-de-Yeyle. — 
"To  tell  you  the  truth,  madame,  the  worst  felh)w  in 
the  company,  or  rather  he  who  had  drank  the  most 
declared   tliat  he  was,  of  all    your  lovers,   the   ono 


380  M.VJ)EMOISKLI-K    DE   CAMAKGO. 

you  most  loved. — 'The  mere  talk  of  a  man  who  has 
had  too  much  wine,'  said  one  of  us.  J>ut  our  imper- 
tinent emptied  his  glass,  and  backed  his  statement. 
The  discussion  became  very  lively,  AVe  talked,  we 
drank,  and  we  talked.  Wlieu  the  last  bottle  was 
empty,  and  the  dispute  was  likely  to  end  in  a  duel, 
and  we  talked  without  knowing,  j^robablj,  what 
we  said,  the  most  sober  of  the  company  proposed 
to  go  and  ask  you  yourself  which  of  your  lovers  you 
hwed  the  most.  Is  it  the  Count  de  Melun?  is  it  the 
Duke  de  Richelieu?  is  it  the  Marquis  de  Croismare? 
the  Baron  de  Viomesnil?  the  Viscount  de  Jumilhac? 
is  it  Monsieur  de  Beaumont,  or  Monsieur  d'Aubigny  ? 
is  it  a  i)oet?  is  it  a  soldier?  is  it  an  abbe?" — "  Pshaw ! 
pshaw!"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Camaro-o,  smilinir: 
"you  had  better  refer  to  the  Court  Calendar P'' — 
"What  we  want  to  know  is  not  the  names  of  those  who 
have  loved  you,  but,  I  repeat,  the  name  of  him  whom 
you  loved  the  most,"— "You  are  fools,"  said  Mademoi- 
selle de  Camargo,  with  an  air  of  sadness,  and  u  voice 
that  showed  emotion  ;  "  I  wull  not  answer  you.  Let 
us  leave  our  extiiu-t  passions  in  their  tombs,  in  peace. 
Why  unbury  all  tliose  charming  follies  which  have 
had  their  day?" — "Come,"  says  Grimm  to  Duclos, 
"  do  not  let  us  grow  sentimental ;  that  would  be  too 
al)surd.  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo,"  said  he,  play- 
ing with  the  dogs  at  the  same  time,  "  wdiich  was  the 
epoch  of  short  petticoats  ?  for  that  is  one  of  the  points 
of  our  philosophical  dispute." 

The  aii-ed  danseuse  did  not  answer.  Takinsr  Pont- 
de-Veyle  by  the  hand,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  said  in  ri- 
sing :  "  Monsieur,  follow  me." —  lie  obeyed  with  some 
8uq)rise.    She  conducted  him  to  her  bedchamber;  it 


MEMENTOES    OF    A    PAST    LOVE.  381 

was  like  a  basket  of  odds  and  ends ;  it  looked  like  a 
linendraper's  shop  in  confusion;  it  was  all  disorder;  it 
was  quite  evident  that  the  dogs  were  at  home  there. 
Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  went  to  a  little  rosewood 
chest  of  drawers,  covered  with  specimens  of  Saxony 
porcelain,  more  or  less  chipped  and  broken.  Slie 
opened  a  little  ebony  box,  exposing  its  contents  to  the 
eyes  of  Pont-de-Yeyle. — "Do  you  see?"  said  she, 
with  a  sigh.  Pont-de-Veyle  saw  a  torn  letter,  the 
dry  bouquet  of  half  a  century,  the  kind  of  floweis 
of  whicli  it  was  composed  could  hardly  be  recognised. 
—"Well?"  asked  Pont-de-Yeyle.— "  Well,  do  you 
understand  ?"—"  Not  at  all."— "  Look  at  that  por- 
trait."— She  pointed  with  her  finger  to  a  wretched 
portrait  in  oils,  covered  with  dust  and  sj)ider's  web. 
— "  I  begin  to  understand." — "  Yes,"  said  she,  "  that 
is  his  portrait.  As  for  myself,  I  never  look  at  it. 
The  one  here,"  striking  her  breast,  "  is  more  like.  A 
portrait  is  a  good  thing  for  those  who  have  no  time 
for  memorv." 

Pont-de-Yevle  looked  in  turn  with  much  interest 
at  the  letter,  the  faded  bouquet,  and  tlie  wretched  por- 
trait.— "  Have  you  ever  met  this  peison?" — "Never." 
— "  Let  us  return,  then." — "  No ;  I  beg  let  me  hear 
the  stoi'y." — "  Is  it  not  enough  to  have  seen  his  por- 
trait? You  can  now  settle  your  dispute  with  a  word, 
since  you  know  whether  he  whom  I  loved  the  most 
resembles  your  friend  who  had  taken  so  much  M'ine." 
— "  He  does  not  resemble  him  the  least  in  the  world." 
— "  Well,  that  is  all :  I  forgive  your  visit.  Farewell ! 
When  you  breakfast  with  your  friends,  you  can  take 
up  my  defence  somewhat.  You  can  tell  those  liber- 
tines without  pity,  that  I  have  saved  myself  by  my 


383  MADEMOISICLI.K    DE    CAISIARGO. 

heart,  if  we  can  be  saved  that  way  ....  Yes,  yos ;   it 
is  my  })lauk  of  safety,  in  the  wreck !" 

Saying  these  words,  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  ap- 
proached the  door  of  the  saloon.  Pont-de-Veyle  fol- 
lowed her,  carrvini;;  the  el)onv-Lox. — "Gentlemen," 
said  he,  to  his  merry  friends,  "  our  drunken  toper 
was  a  coxcondj ;  I  have  seen  the  portrait  of  the  best 
beloved  of  the  goddess  of  this  mansion ;  now,  you 
must  join  your  i>rayers  to  mine,  to  prevail  upon 
Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  to  relate  to  us  the  romance 
of  her  heart ;  I  only  know  the  preface,  which  is 
melancholy  and  interesting ;  I  have  seen  a  letter,  a 
bouquet,  and  a  portrait." — "  I  will  not  tell  you  a 
word,  muttered  she  ;  "  women  are  charged  with  not 
being  able  to  keep  a  secret;  there  is,  however,  more 
than  one  that  they  never  tell.  A  love-secret  is  a  rose 
which  embalms  our  hearts ;  if  it  is  told,  the  rose 
loses  its  perfume.  I  who  address  you,"  said  Made- 
moiselle de  Camargo,  in  Ijrightening  up,  "  I  have 
only  kept  my  love  in  all  its  freshness  by  keeping  it  all 
to  myself.  There  were  only  La  Carton  and  that  old 
rogue  Fontenelle  who  ever  got  hold  of  my  secret. 
Fontenelle  was  in  the  habit  of  dining  frequently  with 
me ;  one  day,  finding  me  in  tears,  he  was  so  surprised, 
he  who  never  wept  himself,  from  philosophy  doubt- 
less, that  he  tormented  me  for  more  than  an  hour  for 
a  solution  of  the  enigma.  He  was  almost  like  a 
woman ;  he  drew  from  me,  l)y  his  cat-like  worrying,  the 
history  of  my  love.  Would  you  believe  it?  I  hoped  to 
touch  iiis  heart,  but  it  was  like  speaking  to  the  deaf. 
After  hu\  iiig  listened  to  the  end  without  saying  a 
word,  he  muttered  with  his  little  weak  voice,  ''It  is 
pretty  r — La  Carton,  however,  wept  with  me.     It  is 


A  EOM.VNCE  OF  THE  HEART.  383 

^iTortli  being  a  poet  and  a  pliilosopher  in  order  not  to 
nuderstand  such  histories." 

Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  was  silent;  a  deep 
silence  followed,  and  every  look  was  upon  her. — 
"Speak,  speak!  we  are  all  attention,"  said  Helvetius, 
"  we  are  more  worthy  of  hearing  your  story  than  the 
old  philosopher  who  loved  no  one  but  himself."— 
"After  all,"  she  replied,  carried  away  by  the  delight 
of  her  remembrance,  "  it  will  be  spending  a  happy 
hour;  I  speak  of  myself,  and  as  for  happ}^  or  un- 
happy hours,  not  many  more  are  to  pass  during  my 
life,  for  I  feel  that  I  am  passing  away.  But  I  do  not 
know  how  to  begin  ;  a  fire  flashes  before  my  eyes;  I 
can  not  see,  I  am  so  overcome.  To  begin :  I  was 
twentv  ....  But  I  shall  never  have  the  coiu-aije  to 
read  my  history  aloud  before  so  many  people." 
''Fancy,  Mademoiselle  de  Camargo,"  said  Helve- 
tius, "that  you  are  readino;  a  romance." — "Well, 
then,"  said  she,  "  I  will  begin  without  ceremony." 

"  I  was  twenty  years  old.  You  are  all  aware,  foi* 
the  adventure  caused  a  great  deal  of  scandal,  you 
ail  know  how  the  Count  de  Melun  carried  me  off 
one  morning  along  with  my  sister  Sophy.  This  little 
mad-cap,  who  had  a  great  deal  of  imagination,  hav- 
ing discovered  me  reading  a  letter  of  the  count's,  in 
which  he  spoke  of  his  design,  she  swore  upon  her 
thirteen  years  that  he  must  carry  her  off  too.  I  was 
far  from  conceding  any  such  claim.  It  is  always 
taken  for  granted  that  children  know  nothing;  but 
at  the  opera,  and  in  love,  tlu'i-e  ai'c;  iki  childrt'ii. 
'J'he  Count  de  Melun,  by  means  ol"  a  bribe,  had 
gained  over  the  chambermaid.  I  was  very  cul[>a- 
blc  ;    r  liKW  all,  and   had   not  informed   my  father. 


384  MADETMOISEr-r,E   DE   CARMAKOO. 

But  iiiy  fatlKT  wearied  me  somcwliut ;  lie  j)i'e;iclie(i 
in  tlio  dessert;  tluit  is  to  say,  lie  preached  tome  alxmt 
virtue.  He  ■was  always  talking  to  me  about  oni-  uo 
l)le  descent,  of  our  cousin,  who  was  a  cardinal,  of  our 
uncle,  who  Avas  a  grand  in(|uisitor  of  tlie  Inquisition. 
Vanity  of  vanities !  all  was  vanity  with  him,  while 
with  me  all  was  love.  I  did  not  trouble  myself  about 
beiuix  of  an  illustrious  familv  ;  I  was  luindsome,  I  was 
worshipped,  and,  what  was  still  better,  I  was  young. 

"  In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  heard  my  door  open  ; 
it  was  the  Count  de  Melun.  I  was  not  asleep,  I  was 
expecting  him.  It  is  not  every  woman  who  would 
like  it  that  is  run  away  with.  I  was  going  to  be  run 
away  with. 

"Love  is  not  only  charming  in  itself,  it  is  so  also 
from  its  romance.  A  passion  without  adventure  is 
like  a  mistress  without  caprice  I  was  seated  upon 
my  bed.  'Is  it  you,  Jacqueline?'  I  said,  affecting 
fright.  'It  is  I,'  said  the  count,  falling  upon  his 
knees.  '  You,  sir  !  Your  letter  was  not  a  joke  then  ?' 
'My  horses  are  at  hand;  there  is  no  time  to  lose; 
leave  this  sad  prison :  my  hotel,  my  fortune,  my 
heart,  all  are  at  your  service.'  At  that  moment  a 
light  aj)peared  at  the  door.  'My  father!'  I  cried, 
WMth  affright,  as  I  concealed  myself  behind  the  bed- 
curtains.  '  All  is  lost,'  muttered  the  count.  It  was 
So])hie.  I  recognised  her  light  step.  She  approached 
with  the  light  in  her  hand,  and  in  silence,  toward  the 
count.  '  My  sister,'  said  she,  with  some  degree  of 
excitement,  but  without  losing  her  presence  of  mind, 
'here  lam,  all  ready.'  I  did  not  understand;  I 
looked  at  her  with  surprise ;  she  was  all  dressed,  from 
bead  to  foot.     '  What  are  you  saying?  You  are  mad. 


AT  Tirp:  COUNTS  noTEL.  385 

'  Kot  hj  any  means ;  1  want  to  be  run  away  with, 
like  yourself.'  The  Count  de  Melnn  conkl  not  help 
laughing.  '  Mademoiselle,'  he  said  to  her,  '  you  for- 
get your  dolls  and  toys.  '  Sir,'  replied  she,  '  with 
diirnitv,  '  I  am  thirteen  years  old.  It  was  not  yester- 
day  that  I  made  my  debut  at  the  opera;  I  take  a 
part  on  the  stage  in  the  ravishment  of  Psyche.' 
'  Good,'  says  the  couiit,  '  we  will  carry  you  off  too.' 
'It  is  as  well,'  whispered  the  count  in  my  ear;  'this 
is  the  only  way  of  getting  rid  of  her.' 

"  I  was  very  much  put  out  by  this  contretemps, 
which  gave  a  new  complication  to  our  adventure. 
My  father  might  forgive  my  being  carried  off,  but 
Sophie!  I  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  her  mad  enter- 
prise. I  offered  her  my  ornaments ;  she  would  not 
listen  to  reason.  She  declared,  that  if  she  was  not 
carried  off  with  me  she  would  inform  against  us, 
and  thus  prevent  the  adventure.  '  Do  not  oppose 
lier,'  said  the  count;  'with  such  a  tendency  she  will 
be  sure  to  be  carried  off,  sooner  or  later.' — '  A7ell, 
let  us  depart  together.'  The  chambermaid,  who 
had  approached  with  the  stealthy,  quiet  step  of  a 
cat,  t(jld  us  to  hurry,  for  she  was  afraid  that  the  noise 
of  the  horses,  that  were  pawing  the  ground  near  ])y, 
would  awaken  Monsieur  de  Camargo.  We  were  off; 
the  carriage  drove  us  to  the  count's  hotel,  rue  de  la 
Ciiltnre-Saint-Gervais.  Sophie  laughed  and  snng. 
Ill  the  morning  I  wrote  to  the  manager  of  the  opera, 
that  by  the  advice  of  my  physician  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  ai)pear  for  three  weeks.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
gentlemen,  in  a  week's  time  I  went  myself  to  inform 
the  manager  that  I  would  dance  that  cvenin<j.  This, 
}t>u  jjcrceive,  is  not  very  flattering  to  Ihe  Count  do 

33 


oS6  MADEMOISi:iJ-E    DE   CAMARGO. 

Mel  nil ;  hut  there  are  so  few  men  in  tliis  world  who 
are  sufficiently  interestins:  for  a  week  toii;etlier.  I 
loved  the  count,  doul)tle:?s,  hut  I  wanted  to  hreathe 
a  little  without  him.  I  desired  the  excitement  of  the 
theatre.  I  0]>ened  my  window,  constantly,  as  if  I 
M'ould  fly  out  of  it. 

"As  soon  as  I  appeared  at  the  opera  my  father 
followed  my  track,  and  discovered  the  retreat  of  his 
daug-htcrs.  One  evenino;  behind  the  scenes,  he  went 
straight  to  the  count,  and  insulted  him.  The  count 
answered  him,  with  i^reat  deference,  that  he  would 
avoid  the  chance  of  taking  the  life  of  a  gallant  gen- 
tleman who  had  given  birth  to  such  a  daughter  as  I 
was.  My  father  did  his  best  to  prove  and  establish 
liis  sixteen  quarteriugs,  the  count  was  not  willing  to 
light  him.  It  was  about  that  time  that  my  father 
presented  his  famous  petition  to  the  Cardinal  de 
Fleury :  "  Your  petitioner  would  state  to  the  Lord 
Cardinal,  that  the  Count  de  ]\[elun,  having  carried 
off  his  two  daughters  in  the  night,  between  the  10th 
and  11th  of  the  month  of  May,  1728,  holds  them  im- 
prisoned in  his  hotel,  rue  de  la  Culture-Saint-Ger- 
vais.  Your  petitioner  having  to  do  with  a  person 
of  rank,  is  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  his  majesty's 
ministers;  he  hopes,  through  the  goodness  of  the 
king,  justice  will  be  done  him,  and  that  the  Count 
de  Melun  will  be  commanded  to  espouse  the  elder 
daughter  of  your  petitioner,  and  endow  the  younger." 

"  A  father  could  not  have  done  better.  The  Cardi- 
nal de  Fleury  amused  himself  a  good  deal  with  the 
petition,  and  recommended  me,  one  day  that  we  were 
pu])])ing  together,  for  full  penance,  to  make  over  to 
i/iy  father  my  salaiy  at  the  opera.     But  T  find  T  am 


A   NEAV    LOVER. 


387 


not  eettinir  on  with  mv  story.  But  what  wouhl 
YOU  have?  The  be2;iiiuhio'  is  always  where  we  dwell 
with  the  greatest  pleasure.  I  had  been  living-  in 
the  count's  hotel  a  year;  Sophie  had  returned  to  my 
father's  house,  where  she  did  not  remain  long;  hut  it 
is  not  her  history  that  I  am  relating.  One  morning 
a  cousin  of  the  coiart  arrived  at  the  hotel  in  a  great 
bustle ;  he  was  about  spending  a  season  in  Paris,  in 
all  the  wildness  of  youth.  He  took  us  by  surprise  at 
breahfiist;  he  took  his  seat  at  table,  without  cere- 
mony, on  the  invitation  of  the  count. 

"  In  the  beginning  he  did  not  strike  my  fancy ;  1 
thought  him  somewhat  of  a  braggadocio.  He  culti- 
vated his  mustachios  with  great  care  (the  finest  mus- 
tachius  in  the  world),  and  spoke  quite  often  enough 
of  his  prowess  in  battle.  Some  visiter  interrupting 
us,  the  count  went  into  his  lilu-ary,  and  left  us  together, 
tete-a-tete.  Monsieur  dc  Marteille's  voice,  until  then 
proud  and  haughty  in  its  tone,  softened  a  little.  He 
had  at  first  looked  at  me  with  the  eye  of  a  soldier ; 
lie  now  looked  at  me  with  the  eye  of  a  pupil. — 
'Excuse,  rnadame,'  said  he,  with  some  emotion,  'my 
rude  soldier-like  bearing;  I  know  nothing  of  fine 
manners;  I  liave  never  passed  through  the  school 
of  gallantry.  Bo  not  be  offended  at  anything  T  may 
Bay.' — 'AVliy,  sir,'  said  I,  smiling,  'yoii  do  not  say 
anything  at  all.' — 'Ah,  if  I  knew  how  to  P])eak!  Init, 
in  truth,  T  would  feel  moi-e  at  home  before  a  whole 
arniv  than  I  do  l)efore  yonr  beautiful  eyes.  The 
count  is  very  ha]i]n'  in  having  such  a  beautiful  enemy 
to  contend  with.' — AVhih-.  speaking  thus,  he  looked  at 
mc  with  a  su|)pHcating  temlerness  whi(di  contrasted 
singularly  with  his  look  of  the  hero.     I  do  not  know 


3S8  mai)i:moisi;i,lk  dk  cA>tAi:GO, 

what  mv  eyes  answered  liiin.  The  count  then  camo 
in,  and  the  conversation  took  another  turn. 

''Monsieur  de  Marteille  acce[)te(l  the  earnest  invi- 
tation of  his  cousin  to  sta}'  at  his  hotel,  lie  went  out; 
1  did  not  see  liiin  again  till  evening.  lie  did  not 
know  who  I  was;  tlie  count  called  me  Marianne, 
and,  unintentionally,  perhaps,  he  had  not  spoken  a 
word  to  his  cousin  about  the  opera,  or  my  grace 
and  skill  as  a  dancer.  At  supper,  Monsieur  de 
Marteille  had  no  lonijer  the  same  frank  c-avetv 
of  the  morning;  a  slight  uneasiness  passed  like  a 
cloud  over  his  brow;  more  than  once  I  caught  his 
melancholy  glance. — '  Clieer  up  3^our  cousin,'  I  said 
to  the  count. — 'I  know  what  he  wants,'  answered 
Monsieur  de  Melun ;  'I  will  take  him  to-morrow  to 
the  opera.  You  will  see  that  in  tliat  God-forsaken 
place  he  will  find  his  good  humor  again.' — I  felt 
jealous,  without  asking  myself  Mdiy. 

"Xext  day  the  Trii(inj)/i  of  Bacclais  was  ])]ayed. 
I  appeared  as  Ariadne,  all  covered' Avith  vine-leaves 
and  flowers.  I  never  danced  so  badly.  I  had 
recognised  Monsieur  de  Marteille  among  the  gentle- 
men of  the  court.  He  looked  at  me  with  a  serious 
air.  I  had  hoped  to  have  hail  an  o|)])ortunity  to 
speak  wMth  him  before  the  end  of  the  ballet,  but  he 
had  already  gone.  I  was  offended  at  his  abru})t  de- 
jiarture. — 'How!'  said  I  to  myself,  'he  sees  me 
dance,  and  this  is  the  way  he  makes  me  his  compli- 
ments.'— ^Next  morning,  he  breakfasted  with  us  ;  he 
did  not  say  a  word  about  the  evening;  finally,  not 
being  able  to  resist  my  impatience,  'Well,  Mon- 
eiein*  de  Marteille,'  said  I  to  him,  somewhat  harshly, 
'you   left   early   last   night;    it   was   hardly  pclito 


LOVE    ON    THE    KOAD.  389 

of  3''0U.' — 'All !  wLien  jon  were  to  dance  no  more !' 
said  he  with  a  sigh.  This  was  the  first  time  that  I 
was  ever  spoken  to  thus.  Fearing  that  he  had  said 
too  much,  and  in  order  to  divert  Monsieur  de  Meluu, 
who  observed  liim  with  a  look  of  surprise,  he  began 
to  speak  of  a  little  singer  of  no  great  moment,  who 
had  a  voice  of  some  freshness. 

"  In  the  afternoon,  the  count  detained  at  home  for 
some  reason  or  other,  begged  his  cousin  to  accompany 
me  in  a  ride  to  the  woods  lie  was  to  ioin  us  on  horse- 
back.  The  idea  of  this  ride  made  my  heart  beat 
violently.  It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  listened 
with  ])leasure  to  the  beatings  of  my  heart. 

'•  AVe  started  on  a  fine  summer's  day.  Every- 
thing was  like  a  holyday :  the  sky,  tlie  houses, 
the  trees,  the  horses,  and  the  people.  A  veil  had 
fallen  from  my  eyes.  For  some  minutes  we  re- 
mained in  the  deepest  silence ;  not  knowing  what  to 
do,  I  amused  mvself  bv  makins;  a  diamond  that  I 
wore  srlisten  in  the  rays  of  the  sun  that  entered  the 
carriage.  Monsieur  de  Marteille  caught  hold  of  my 
hand.  "We  b'.>th  said  not  a  word  the  whole  time.  I 
tried  to  disengage  my  hand  ;  he  hehl  it  the  harder. 
I  blushed  ;  he  turned  pale.  A  jolt  of  the  carriage 
occurred  vciy  opportunely  to  relieve  us  from  our 
endtarrassment ;  the  jolt  had  lifted  me  from  my  seat; 
it  nuide  me  fall  upon  his  bosom. — 'Monsieur,'  said  I, 
.starting. — 'Ah,  inadame,  if  you  knew  how  I  love 
you!' — He  said  this  with  a  tenderness  beyond  ex- 
pression; it  was  love  itself  that  s])okeI  I  had  n(^ 
longer  the  strejigth  to  get  angry.  He  took  my  hand 
again  and  devoured  it  witli  kisses.  lie  did  not  say 
another  word  ;    1   tried   to  s[)eak,  but  did  not  know 

3?.* 


390  MADEMOISELLK    j)l.;    CAMARGO. 

what  to  say  myself.  From  time  to  time  our  looks 
met  each  other;  it  Avas  then  that  we  were  eloquent. 
Such  eternal  pledges,  such  promises  of  happiness  I 

"Notwithstanding,  we  arrived  at  the  woods.  All 
of  a  sudden,  as  if  seized  with  a  ucm-  idea',  he  put  his 
liead  out  of  the  window,  and  said  something  to  the 
coachman.  I  understood,  by  the  answer  of  La 
A^iolettc,  the  coachman,  that  he  was  not  willing  to 
ol)ey  ;  but  Monsieur  de  Marteille  having  alluded  to 
a  caning  and  fifty  pistoles,  the  coachman  made  no 
further  objections.  I  did  not  understand  very  well 
what  he  was  about.  After  an  hour's  rapid  travelling, 
as  I  was  looking  with  some  anxiety  as  to  where  we 
were,  he  tried  to  divert  me  by  telling  me  some  epi- 
sodes of  his  life.  Although  I  did  not  listen  very 
intelligently  to  what  lie  said,  I  heard  enouirh  to  find 
out  that  1  Avas  the  iirst  woman  he  had  ever  loved. 
They  all  say  so,  but  he  told  the  truth,  for  he  spoka 
with  his  eyes  and  his  heart.  I  soon  found  out  that 
we  were  no  longer  on  our  right  road ;  but  observe 
how  far  the  feebleness  of  a  woman  in  love  will  sro: 
I  hadn't  the  courage  to  ask  him  whv  he  had  chanaed 
our  route.  We  crossed  the  Seine  in  a  boat,  between 
Sc  vres  and  St.  Cloud  ;  we  regained  the  woods,  and 
after  an  hour's  ride  through  them,  we  reached  an 
iron  park-gate,  at  the  extremity  of  the  village  of 
Velaisy. 

"Monsieur  de  Marteille  had  counted  without  his 
host,  lie  expected  not  to  have  found  a  soul  in  his 
brother's  chateau,  but,  since  the  evening  before,  hitj 
brother  had  returned  from  a  journey  to  the  coast 
of  France.  Seeing  that  the  chateau  was  inhabited, 
Monsieur  de  Marteille  begged  me  to  M'ait  a  little  in 


EXCITEIIENT    AT    THE    OPERA.  391 

the  carriage.  As  soon  as  he  liad  gone,  the  coachman 
came  to  the  door. — '  A7cll,  madame,  we  breathe  at 
hist !  my  opinion  is  that  we  shonkl  make  our  escape. 
Depend  upon  the  word  of  La  Yiolette,  we  shall  be  in 
less  than  two  hours  at  the  hotel.' — 'La  Yiolette,'  said 
I,  '  open  the  door.' —  I  ran  a  great  risk.  La  Yiolette 
obeyed. — 'Now,'  said  I  to  him,  when  I  had  alighted 
upon  the  ground,  'yon  may  go!' — He  looked  at  me 
with  the  eye  of  an  old  philosopher,  mounted  his  box, 
and  snai>ped  his  whip ;  but  he  had  hardly  started, 
when  he  thought  it  better  to  return. — 'I  will  not 
return  without  madame,  for  if  I  return  alone,  I  shall 
be  sm-e  uf  a  gO(id  beating,  and  of  being  discharged.' 
— 'Indeed,  La  Yiulette  !  as  you  please.' — At  that 
moment,  I  saw  the  count  returning. — 'It  is  all  for  the 
best,'  he  cried  out,  in  the  distance;  'my  brother  has 
only  two  days  to  spend  in  Paris :  he  has  stopped 
here  to  give  his  orders ;  he  wishes,  at  all  hazards,  to 
see  Camargt^  dance!  I  told  him  that  she  was  to  ap- 
pear this  evening.  He  will  leave  in  a  moment.  You 
must  wait  in  the  park  till  he  is  gone.  I  will  return 
to  him,  fur  I  must  take  my  leave  of  him,  and  wish 
liim  a  pleasant  journej'. 

"An  hour  afterward  we  were  installed  in  tlie  cha- 
teau. La  Yiolette  remained,  at  our  order,  with  his 
carriage  and  liorses.  In  the  eveniuf;  there  was  grreat 
excitement  at  tlie  opera.  It  was  solemidy  announced 
to  the  public  that  Arademoiselle  de  Camargo  liad 
been  carried  off!  The  Count  de  Melun,  surprised  at 
not  finding  us  in  the  woods,  had  gone  to  the  theatre. 
He  was  hissed ;  he  swore  revenge.  lie  souglit  every- 
where; he  found  neither  his  h(»rses,  nnr  liis  cai'riagc^, 
nor  Iii.x  nustress.     For  three  months  the  opera  was  in 


392  MADEMOISELLE    DE    CAMARGO. 

mourning!  Tliirty  biiililis  were  on  my  track;  bill 
we  made  so  little  noise  in  our  little  chateau,  hid  away 
in  the  woods,  that  we  were  never  discovered." 

Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  became  pale :  she  was 
silent,  and  looked  at  her  listeners  as  if  she  would  say 
by  her  looks  that  had  been  lighted  up  at  that  celestial 
flame  wdiich  had  passed  over  her  life :  "  Oh,  how  we 
loved  each  other  during  those  three  months !" 

She  continued  as  follows:  "That  season  has  tilled 
a  greater  space  in  my  life  than  all  the  rest  of  my 
days.  "When  I  think  of  the  past,  it  is  there  where  my 
thoughts  travel  at  once.  How  i-elate  to  you  the  par- 
ticulars of  our  happiness?  When  destiny  protects 
us,  happiness  is  composed  of  a  thousand  charming 
nothings  that  the  hearts  of  others  can  not  understand. 
During  those  three  months  I  was  entirely  happy ;  I 
wished  to  live  for  ever  in  this  charming  retreat  for 
him  that  I  loved  a  thousand  times  more  than  myself. 
I  wished  to  aV)andon  the  opera,  that  opera  that  the 
C(.)unt  de  Melun  could  not  make  me  foi'get  for  a 
week ! 

"  Monsieur  de  Marteille  possessed  all  the  attrac- 
tion of  a  real  passion  ;  he  loved  me  with  a  charming 
simplicity;  he  put  in  play,  without  designing  it,  all 
the  seductions  of  love.  AVhat  tender  woi'ds!  what 
impassioned  looks  !  what  enticing  conversation  ? 
Each  day  was  a  holyday,  each  hour  a  rapture.  I 
had  no  time  to  think  of  the  morrow, 

"  Our  days  were  spent  in  walks,  in  the  shade  of 
the  woods,  in  the  thousand  windings  of  the  park.  In 
tlie  evening  I  played  the  harpsichord,  and  I  sang. 
It  often  occurred  that  I  danced,  danced  for  him.  In 
the  middle  of  a  dance  that  would  have  excited  a  fu- 


THE    FADED    BOUQEET.  393 

ror  at  the  02)era,  I  fell  at  his  feet,  completely  over- 
come ;  he  raised  me  up,  pressed  me  to  his  heart  and 
foi'gave  me  for  having  danced.  I  always  hear  his 
beautiful  voice,  which  was  like  music,  but  such  mu- 
sic as  I  dream  of,  and  not  such  as  Hameau  has  com- 
posed ....  But  now  I  am  speaking  without  know- 
ing what  I  say." 

Mademoiselle  de  Camargo  turned  toward  Pont-de- 
Veyle.  "Monsieur,"  said  she,  '*open  that  box  or 
rather  hand  it  to  me."  She  took  tlie  box,  opened  it, 
and  took  the  bouquet  from  it.  "  But  above  all,  gen- 
tlemen, I  must  explain  to  you  why  I  have  preserved 
this  bouquet."  AVhile  saying  this,  she  attempted  to 
smell  the  vanished  odor  of  the  bouquet. 

"  One  morning,"  slie  resumed,  "  Monsieur  de  Mar- 
teille  awoke  me  early  — '  Farewell !'  he  said,  pale  and 
trembliuG;. — 'What  are  vou  savins;?'  cried  I  with 
affriglit. — '  Alas,'  replied  he,  embracing  me,  '  I  did 
nut  wish  to  tell  vou  before,  but  for  a  fortnisfht  I  have 
had  orders  to  leave.  Hostilities  are  to  be  re- 
sumed in  the  Low  Countries  ;  I  have  no  longer  a  sin- 
gle hour  either  for  you  or  for  me  ;  I  have  over  forty 
leagues  to  travel  to  day.' — '  Oh,  my  God,  what  will 
become  of  me?'  said  I  weeping.  'I  will  follow  yon.' 
— '  But,  mv  dear  Marianne,  I  shall  return.' — '  You 
will  return  in  an  age !  Go,  cruel  one,  I  shall  be 
dead  when  you  return.' 

"An  hour  was  spent  in  taking  leave  and  in  tears  ; 
he  was  oljliged  to  go  ;  he  went. 

"  I  returned  to  weep  in  that  retreat,  that  was  so 
deliglitful  the  evening  before.  Two  days  after  liis 
depaiturc,  he  wrote  me  a  very  tender  letter,  in  wliicli 
he  told  me  that  on  the  next  day,  he  w^iild  have  ilie 


39:1  MADKMOISKLLE   DK   CAMAKGO. 

c'oiisolatiou  of  ciii;iii;iiiu'  in  huttle.  'I  liope,' addec? 
he,  'that  tlie  caiiij)aigii  will  not  be  a  lon«^  one;  some 
davs  of  hard  iiifhtiiii:;  and  then  I  return  to  vonr  feet.' 
AVhat  more  shall  I  tell  you  ?  He  wrote  me  once  araiu." 
Mademoiselle  de  Camargo,  unfolded  slowly,  the 
torn  letter.     "  Here  is  the  second  letter ; — 

Oct.  VI. 

"  '  No,  I  shall  not  return,  my  dear,  I  am  going  to 
die,  but  without  feai-,  without  reproach.  Oh  I  if  you 
were  here,  Marianne  !  "What  madness  !  in  an  hos})ital 
AS'here,  all  of  us,  all,  be  we  what  we  may,  are  disfig- 
ured with  wounds,  and  dvinir!  What  an  idea  to 
dash  ahead  in  the  light,  Avhen  I  only  tliought  of  see- 
ing you  again.  As  soon  as  I  was  wounded,  I  asked 
the  surgeon  if  I  should  live  long  enough  to  reach 
Paris :  "  You  have  but  an  hour,"  lie  answered  me  ]Mti- 
lessly  .  .  .  They  l)ronght  me  herewith  the  others.  In 
a  word,  we  should  learn  to  resign  ourselves,  to  what 
comes  from  Heaven.  I  die  C(»ntent  with  haviiiir 
loved  you;  console  yourself ;  return  to  the  opera.  I 
am  not  jealous  of  those  who  shall  succeed  me,  for 
will  they  love  you  as  I  have  done?  Farewell,  Ma- 
rianne, death  a])proaches,  and  death  never  waits ;  I 
thank  it  for  having  left  me  sufficient  time  to  bid  you 
farewell.     N«»w,  it  will  l)e  I  who  will  wait  for  you. 

" '  Farewell,  farewell,  I  press  you  to  my  heai-t 
which  ceases  to  beat.'  " 

After  having  wiped  her  eyes,  Mademoiselle  de 
Camargo  continued  as  follows:  "Shall  I  describe  to 
you  all  my  sorrows,  all  my  tears,  all  my  anguish ! 
Alas !  as  he  liad  said,  I  returned  \x)  the  opera.  I  did 
not  forget  Monsieur  de  Marteille,  in  the  tempest  of 


DIES    A    GOOD    CATHOLIC.  30;: 

my  fully.  Others  have  loved  me.  I  have  loved  no 
one  but  Monsieur  de  Marteille  :  his  memory  has 
beamed  upon  my  life  like  a  blessing  from  heaven. 
When  I  reappeared  at  the  opera.  I  was  seen  attend- 
ing mass  ;  I  was  laughed  at  for  my  devotion.  Tliey 
did  not  understand,  j)hilosoj)hei"S  as  they  were,  that 
I  prayed  to  God,  in  consequence  of  those  words  of 
Monsieur  do  Marteille  :  'iSTow  it  will  be  I  whn  will 
wait  for  you.' 

"When  I  left  the  chateau,  I  plucked  a  bouquet  in 
ibe  park,  thinking  that  I  was  plucking  the  flowers 
that  had  bloomed  for  him  ;  I  brought  awav  this  b<m- 
quet,  along  with  the  portrait  that  you  see  there.  I  had 
vowed,  in  leaving  our  dear  retreat,  to  go  every  year, 
at  the  same  season,  to  gather  a  bouquet  in  the  park. 
Will  you  believe  it?  I  never  went  there  again!" 

Mademoiselle  de  Camargo,  thus  finished  her  liis- 
tory.  "  Well,  my  dear  philosopher,"  said,  irdvetius 
to  Duclos,  in  descending  the  steps,  "you  have  just 
read  a  book  that  is  somewhat  curious." — "  A  bad 
l)o<ik,"  answered  Duclos,  "  but  such  books  are  always 
interesting." 

In  April,  1770,  the  news  spread  that  Mademoiselle 
de  Camargo  had  just  died  a  good  catholic.  "Tin's 
created  a  great  surprise,"  says  a  journal  of  the  day, 
"in  the  re]>ul»lic  of  letters,  for  she  was  sup])Osed  to 
have  l)een  dead  twenty  years."  Her  last  admirer  and 
her  last  friend,  to  whom  she  had  bequeathed  her  dogs 
and  her  cats,  had  caused  her  body  to  1)C  interred 
Avitli  a  magnificence  unexamjjled  at  the  opera.  "  All 
tlie  world,"  says  Grimm,  "admii-ed  tluit  white  pall, 
the  Rynd)ol  of  chastity,  that  all  unmarried  persone 
aiv  entitliil  to  in  tjujir  fiuici'al  crrtMiioiiv," 


MADEMOISELLE   GUIMARD. 

(a  goddess  of  the  orEiiA.) 

To  the  storytellci-  tlic  eigliteentli  century  is  iiicx 
lianstible.  One  m'Iio  merely  stops  at  tlie  surface^ 
judges  it  at  a  single  glance  —  a  superannuated  ir.y- 
tliuldgy  in  the  arts,  licentious  amours  in  the  world  of 
tashion,  golden  days  at  court ;  but  one  who  descends 
a  little  way  into  the  gloom  of  that  yet  palpitating 
past,  who  resolutely^  shakes  the  dust  from  the  vol- 
umes of  a  century,  who  studies  at  Versailles  and 
elscM'here  the  faces  of  Louis  XV.'s  court,  who  seeks 
to  I'ead  into  those  hearts  hidden  beneath  the  roses  of 
of  the  bodice  —  lie  will  discover  a  whole  comedy  in 
a  hundred  various  acts,  })layed  in  open  day  in  a 
thousand  curious  scenes  —  the  eternal  comedy  of 
life,  but  more  artlessly  mad  than  ever.  Thus  far,  I 
have  endeavored  to  paint  the  most  intelligent  of  the 
group,  those  who  exhibit  the  radiance  of  poetry  in 
every  view;  I  liave  yet  more  than  one  study  to 
make,  and  since  I  have  spoken  of  the  theatre,  may 
I  not  sketch  the  profiles  of  some  of  those  actresses, 
who,  from  Camargo  to  Guimard,  fonn,  as  the  Gen- 
til-Bernard  said,  a  garland  of  love?  We  shall  see 
that,  far  from   being  mi.splaced   in  the  human  com- 


OPERATIC    FORTUNES.  SOI 

edy,  the  jesters  held  tliere,  as  in  our  own  days,  the 
best  places  iu  point  of  notoriety  and  wealth.  At  the 
time  that  Buissy  was  dying  of  misery  (not  like 
Maliilati-e,  who,  at  least,  died  alone,  but)  with  his 
wile  and  children,  the  actress,  who  played  his  pieces 
was  spattering  twenty  poets  with  her  coaches.  At 
the  time  when  Grctry,  Lantara,  and  Jean-Jacqnes 
lioussean,  were  living  on  condition  of  dining  out, 
Mademoiselle  Guimard  had  a  palace,  and  gave  a 
supper  to  a  prince  and  a  duke;  I  need  not  add  that 
the  musician,  the  com])anion  of  her  glory  at  the 
opera,  was  not  invited  to  the  supper.  But  all  this 
false  notoriety  and  talse  eclat  at  last  gave  place  to 
a  worthier  glory,  when  death  came  to  assign  every 
one  his  place.  To-day,  the  poet  or  musician  still 
charms  ns,  but  who  remembers  the  dancer  or  singer 
that  spattered  liim  ?  A  case  in  point.  It  is  not  a 
month  since  Mademoiselle  Thevenin  (who  at  this 
day  knows  Mademoiselle  Thevenin,  the  rival  of 
Duthe  ?)  died  at  Fontainebleau,  at  the  age  of  ninety- 
two.  A  crowd  of  noble  loi'ds  and  bankers  had  ruin- 
ed themselves  for  her  at  the  will  of  her  caprice.  She 
died  a  millionaire  and  a  miser,  without  thinking  of 
God  or  the  poor.  She  had  no  heir,  and  she  made  no 
will,  as  if  tlie  bare  idea  of  giving  away  after  her 
deatii  would  have  cost  her  too  much.  Mademoiselle 
Tlievenin  left  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  livres  to  the 
fitatc.  To  be  sure,  the  state  is  the  chief  pauper  in 
tlie  kingdom. 

God  forbid  tliat  I  sliould  ever  linger  o-,er  such  a 
]iorti'ait.  If  1  have  lu'ought  fnrward  flint  horrible 
death,  it  is  to  avenge  in  limad  day  the  ]»'.or  whom 
tliat   woman  disinlu'ritfd    during  hi-r   lifi-  ard   aft'f.r 


nor  (li'Utli.  I  t'liod^e  iiiv  iii(h1(.'1s  better.  M<.)i'C 
than  one  lovely  laee  may  he  iletaelietl  from  the  <ral- 
lery  of  the  oj)er<i.  By  the  side  of  Mademoiselle  The- 
venin.  who  was  a  miser,  we  find  Mademoiselle  Gui- 
mard.  who  was  a  ]»r(i(lii;al. 

Mademoiselle  Ciiiimaid  played  a  great  part  dnring 
her  life,  at  the  opera,  in  the  city,  and  at  court.  At 
first  she  danced,  then  it  was  love,  love,  always 
love.  A  hnndred  marquises  ruined  themselves  for 
lier  ;  but  what  will  seem  unicli  more  surprising,  she 
almost  rnine<l  a  farmer  of  the  revenue.  A  fai'mer 
of  tlie  revenue  I  You  1<ik»w  they  were  all  as  i-ich  as 
a  hundred  marquises.  I  will  not  tell  you  the  names 
of  her  lovers,  I  should  uot  find  time  and  space ; 
know  only  that  she  counted  dukes  and  pi-inces  amonsr 
the  most  persevering  :  for  instance,  the  Duke  d"Or- 
leans  and  the  Prince  de  Soubise.  The  latter,  espe- 
cially, was  very  obstinate;  he  persisted  in  gi\ing 
her  a  great  deal  of  money.  Guimaixl  was  piv\  ailed 
upon  to  pocket,  on  vai'ious  occasions,  an  income  <»f 
from  three  to  four  hundred  thousand  francs,  on  coiuli- 
tion  of  making  a  good  use  of  it.  Sometimes  she  built 
a  palace,  sometimes  she  gave  large  alms  to  the  ])oor  of 
her  neighborhood.  Grimm  gives  an  account  of  one  of 
lier  charities.  During  the  severe  cold  of  1768,  she  took 
soiiie  money  without  counting  it — nearly  eight  thou- 
dred  francs;  she  set  out  all  alone  without  saying 
anything  to  any  one,  mounted  int(^  the  garrets  in 
her  neighboi-hood,  found  out  all  those  Mho  were  suf- 
fering from  the  rigor  of  the  season,  and  gave  to 
every  family  without  l>read,  enough  to  live  on  for  a 
year.  AVas  not  that  the  kindly  dew  of  which  the 
Scripture  speaks  ?     That  was  something  to  ennoble 


OPERATIC    CHARITY.  S99 

her  pirouettes.  Moved  to  tears  at  this  good  deed, 
Marmoiitel  addressed  a  long  epistle  to  the  dancer ; 
—  we  should  mention  that  he  often  dined  at  Made- 
moiselle Gnimard's.  This  action  made  considerable 
noise ;  a  preacher  spoke  of  it  in  his  sermon,  not  fail- 
ing to  bring  forward,  in  connection  with  the  subject, 
the  sublime  picture  of  the  penitent  Magdalen.  "  It 
is  not  yet  the  penitent  Magdalen  !"  he  exclaimed  ; 
"but  it  is  even  now  the  charitable  Maijdalen  !  The 
hand  that  performs  such  acts  of  charity  will  not  be 
disregarded  by  Saint  Peter,  when  it  knocks  at  the 
gate  of  Paradise."  Grimm,  seeing  everybody  af- 
fected, said  in  his  journal :  "For  my  part,  I  desire 
t)  play  liere  the  part  of  that  good  village-curate,  who, 
\dien  he  liad  preached  to  his  rustic  congregation  on 
the  passion  of  our  Lord,  and  saw  tliem  all  weeping 
at  the  excess  of  his  sufferings,  was  loath  to  send 
them  home  so  atflicted,  and  said  to  them  :  '  ]\ry 
children,  do  not  weep  so  much,  for,  perhai)S,  all  this 
is  not  true  I'  "  The  story  is  true  in  every  particular, 
the  more  so  that  Guimard  never  said  a  word  about 
it ;  it  was  the  ])olice  who  bore  witness  to  all  her  acts 
of  kindness.  P>esides,  Grimm  was  one  of  Guimard's 
distant  admirers.  "  I  have  always  loved  her  ten- 
derly," he  wrote  to  the  king  of  Prussia.  "  They  say 
that  the  sound  of  her  voice  is  j-ough  and  harsh  ;  to 
my  ears  it  is  a  grie\'ons  wrong;  but  as  T  have  never 
heard  her  speak,  that  dcfe'ct  has  not  hicn  able  to 
diminish  my  ])assion  for  her." 

We  may  reasonably  be  astonished  at  this  dancer'a 
wonderful  con((nests;  but  on  the  snbject  of  love  we 
need  be  astonished  at  nothing.  As  soon  as  we 
attempt  to  reason  upon  it  we  are  all  astray.     Not  on- 


400  MADKMOISELLK    GUIMAKD. 

1  .•  was  Guiiuard  not  beautiful,  Liit  she  was  not  even 
liretty.  It  must  be  confessed  that  slie  liad  that  inde- 
finable something  which  seduces,  without  the  mind 
or  heart  knowins;  whv.  Love  is  not  blind  i'or  noth- 
ing,  and  Mademoiselle  Guimard  possessed,  in  a  great- 
er degree  than  any  other  of  her  class,  the  art  of  pnt- 
ting  a  bandage  over  the  eves  that  looked  at  her.  She 
was  thin  for  a  dancer;  so  much  so,  that  her  charita- 
ble companions  sunumied  her  t/ie  spider,  and  truly 
her  dancing  reminded  one  rather  of  the  skips  of  a 
father  long-legs.  Apart  from  the  skips,  she  excelled 
in  the  rigodoon,  the  tambonrine  dance,  the  loure, 
in  all  that  was  called  the  hi^h  stvle.  jMore  than  once 
she  created  a  furor  in  the  gargoulUade  j  she  was 
wondei'ful  in  pironettes  ;  but  her  real  ti-inmph  was  m 
the  fancy-dance,  and  it  was  for  her  that  the  Caprices 
de  GoIatJice  was  composed.  Her  most  marked  fea- 
ture was  her  affectation  ;  she  danced  as  Sterne  wrote  ; 
so  Sterne  who  saw  her  during  his  travels  in  France, 
declared  her  the  most  false,  the  loosest,  the  most 
mannered  of  dancers.  Happily  for  her,  every  one 
was  not  of  Sterne's  opinion.  Her  admirers  said 
in  so  many  woi'ds  :  '*  She  is  volui)tnousness  personi- 
fied ;  she  nnites  the  three  Graces  in  her  own  ])er- 
son."  Mademoiselle  Arnonld  who  M'as  listened  to  as 
an  oracle  in  that  ]ierverted  world,  rather  conntei'bal- 
anced  these  eulogiums  by  her  sarcasms.  M.  de  Ja- 
rente,  bisho])  more  or  less  of  a  diocese  whei'e  he 
never  showed  himself,  was  in  love  with  Mademoiselle 
Guimard.  Thanks  to  him,  she  had,  according  to  his 
expressi«»n,  entered  into  orders  ;  and  she  held  the 
hi.ncfice  leaf.  Hence  that  jest  of  Mademoiselle  Ar- 
nouhPs :  "I  can't  conceive  how  that  little  silkworm 


THE   TEMPLE    OF    TEKPSICIIOKE.  40  i 

is  SO  thin,  she  feeds  on  so  ricli  a  leaf.*'  Mademoi- 
selle Guiniai'd  replied  to  this  spitefid  saying  by  an 
abusive  letter,  in  which  Sophie  Aniould  was  accused 
of  having  conunitted  the  seven  capital  sins  seven 
times  a  day.  Sophie  Arnoiild  re[)]ied  with  these 
tliree  words  :  "  I  double  you." 

Gniniard,  however,  laughed  gayly  at  compliments 
or  sarcasms.  Iler  thoughts  were  far  more  c»ccupied 
with  chanijinii:  a  carriaire,  build inir  a  iialace,  or  doing 
an  act  of  charity.  All  the  jnurnals  of  the  time 
talked  of  her  house,  called  the  Tc7nj>le  of  Terp- 
sichore. Ancient  history  speaks  of  the  courtesan 
Ithodope,  who  built  one  of  the  most  famous  pyramids 
of  Egyjit,  with  the  money  obtained  from  her  lovers ; 
Guimai'd  built  a  palace  in  the  Chaussee-d'Antin, 
where  more  treasures  were  swallowed  up  tlian  would 
have  sufficed  to  build  twenty  pyramids.  The  temple 
of  Terpsichore  contained,  besides  the  lai'ge  and  small 
aj)artments  of  the  goddess,  a  summer-garden,  and  a 
Minter-garden,  a  library  of  bad  books,  a  gallery  of 
jiictures  on  subjects  of  gallantry,  and  a  theatre  where 
the  king's  players  in  ordinary,  and  all  the  talent  of 
the  strolling  companies,  were  delighted  to  act. 
There  was  also  a  Pa[)hian  temple,  and  there  was  al- 
ways somebody  at  the  door.  "A  prohibition  irom 
the  gentlemen  (.»f  the  chand)erwas  necessary,"  said  a 
jomnal,  "  to  ])revent  the  leading  actoi's  of  the  Fi'cnch 
and  Italian  theatres  from  ])laying  at  ]\[ademoiselle 
Guimard's;  because,  afterward,  tliey  took  their  i-e 
]>ose  and  di<l  not  jilay  for  the  pTd)lic."  The  dancei', 
accustomed  as  she  was  bj  cpieenly  coimuand,  braved 
the  ]>roliibition  ;  she  was  thi'eatened  with  the  royal 
indignation,  but  she  ]'e])lied  to  the  threat  bv  giving 

34'- 


402  MADICMOISKLLE    GUIMAllD. 

:it  her  house  the  i»aroilv  of  a  court  fete.  AlthuUii;h 
:i  kinii'  of  France  iuii>;ht  then  know  how  to  squander 
nioiii'V  l)_v  the  handful,  the  parody  was  more  brilliant 
thaii  tlie  fete  itself.  Slutws,  (hmces,  feasting,  follies 
of  eveiT  age  and  country,  nothing  was  wanting, 
scandal  least  of  all. 

Would  it  be  believed?  Tlie  qneen,  Marie-Antoi- 
nette, wli(\  like  so  many  others,  luid  touched  with 
lier  lips  the  fatal  cup  with  which  that  giddy,  pirouet- 
ting, witty,  and  fickle  age  was  intoxicating  itcelf, 
called  Guimard,  without  cei'emony  and  without 
thiuking  twice  on  the  matter,  to  her  toilet  councils. 
It  usually  happened  that  Guimard  was  president  of 
the  council,  even  in  the  presence  of  the  lady  of  hon- 
or, the  Princess  de  Ciiimay,  the  lady  of  the  bedcham- 
Ijer,  the  Coimtess  d'Ossun,  and  the  lady  of  the  palace, 
the  Marchioness  de  la  Roche-Aymon.  The  super- 
iutendent  herself,  the  chief  of  the  council,  as  she  was 
then  called,  had  not  a  woi-d  to  say  when  Guinuird 
appeared  at  Versailles.  The  qneen  had  a  blind  con- 
fidence in  the  dancer's  good  taste.  It  was  Mademoi- 
selle Guimard  here.  Mademoiselle  Guimard  there  : 
is  my  hair  well  dressed?  do  these  roses  look  well 
in  my  bodice?  The  dancer  replied  without  hesita- 
tion, ])retty  much  as  if  she  was  S])caking  to  So]>hie 
Arnould  ;  she  knew  that  etifjuette  Avas  banished  from 
the  court  of  France,  after  Madame  Dubarry  passed 
over  the  throne.  Besides,  she  treated  with  the  qneen, 
almost  like  one  power  with  another.  Tlad  not  all 
tlie  lords  Avho  fluttered  at  court,  ])irouetted  at  her 
house?  did  the  luxury  of  the  Trianon  equal  that  of 
the  temple  of  Teq^sichore ?  Had  the  queen,  like 
the   dancer   (dancer   did    I   say? — goddess   of  the 


THE    SMILE    OF    A    GODDESS. 


403 


dance),  a  winter-garden  where  the  rarest  plants  were 
blooniinof  ? 

Guhnard  was  not  ignorant  of  the  price  the  queen 
set  upon  her  counsels.  So,  one  day  that  she  was 
goincj  to  Fur-l'Eveque,  she  said  t(3  her  lady  of  lionor : 
'•  Do  not  cry,  Gotlion  ;  I  liave  written  to  the  queen, 
tliat  I  had  discovered  a  new  style  of  dressing  the 
hair;  I  shall  be  free  before  this  evening." 

A  journal  uf  the  time,  speaking  of  Guimard's  hotel, 
says,  that  Love  defrayed  the  expense,  and  Luxury 
drew  the  plan.  '•  Xever,"  adds  this  journal,  "  had 
those  divinities  in  Greece  a  temple  more  worthy 
of  tlieir  worship.'' — The  dancer  had  her  painter  in 
ordinary;  that  painter  was  Fragonard.  It  was  de- 
termined between  the  goddess  and  the  artist,  that 
the  saloon  should  be  nnide  up  entii'ely  of  painting, 
]>anels,  ceiling,  doors,  and  mirrors.  Fragonard  took 
iiis  freshest  and  most  seductive  palette,  his  lightest 
and  most  graceful  pencil.  After  two  years'  labor, 
he  was  not  yet  at  the  end  of  this  work  of  gallantry; 
but  he  had  made  his  M-ay  into  the  heart  of  Guimard  ; 
that,  to  be  sure,  was  a  reason  why  he  should  not 
finisli.  Wishing  to  paint  Terpsichore  in  every  as- 
jtect,  and  in  all  her  attributes,  he  had  often  asked  an 
audience  of  the  dancer,  who  always  sat  with  the  best 
grace  in  the  world. — "Well,  Fi-agonai-d,  what  are 
we  going  to  paint  to-day?" — "Your  smile,  your  lips, 
all  the  graces  of  your  mouth."  —  "Flatterer!"  — 
"  Come,  let  us  lose  no  time  ;  a  smile,  if  you  ])lease." 
— "Faith,  T  am  not  at  all  in  tlio  vein  today." — 
"Nevertheless,  we  must  conu*  to  the  ])oint.." — "Do 
voii  think  a  ])erson  can  smile  witliout  a  cause?" — 
"When    vmii    daiu-e   tlie    giirgniiillaile,    it  seems   to 


40i  MADKMOISICLI.K    (iiniAKO. 

me — "  — "Tliiit  is  quit-e  anotlicr  afliiir;  nt  tlio  opera 
I  am  l'oll(l^vill^■  my  trade;  I  am  (juitc  sui'c  tliat  my 
l)retty  airs  are  iu»t  lost." — *'WIim  knows,  if  tliey 
Monld  1)0  lust  here?" — "You  have  uciven  me  an 
idea;  Avell,  my  dear,  mal<e  me  smile;  that  is  your 
husiness." — "'Suppose  I  tell  yt)U  some  scandal  about 
Sophie  Arnould  f — "  Say  on." — "  Xu ;  that  is  not  tiie 
smile  I  want,  for  it  is  the  voluptuous  mouth  I  wish  to 
l)aint  just  now." — "I  supi)ose  I  have  not  gut  the 
virtuous  inoiitli.''' 

ITistoi-y  has  not  recorded  the  rest  of  this  conversa- 
tion between  the  painter  and  the  dancer.  History 
always  takes  a  long  leap  over  the  critical  moments. 
All  thr.t  1  can  sav  is,  that  the  next  dav  Fraiionai'd 
was  des])erately  in  love,  and  hoped  to  liave  a  good 
sitting;  but  the  next  day,  a  prince,  a  duke,  a  marquis, 
a  farmer  of  the  revenue,  whom  you  will,  came  to  ask 
an  audience  of  Guimard.  The  painter  liad  the  folly 
to  be  jealous ;  he  imagined  he  had  claims  upon  tliat 
fickle  lieart.  Not  onl}^  was  he  jealous,  but,  to  make 
the  nuitter  siqii-emely  ridiculous,  he  took  a  notion 
to  tell  the  dancer  so. — "Jealous!"  slie  exclaimed, 
"jealous  of  me  !  really,  that  is  too  funny  ;  my  dear, 
you  will  make  me  die  of  laughing.  In  love  —  that 
is  very  well;  but  jealous!  what  folly!" — "Yes,  I 
am  jealous,"  said  the  painter  in  a  pet ;  "  I  love  you, 
and  you  shall  love  me,  Avere  it  onl}'^  for  a  Aveek." — 
"A  week !  von  do  not  know  Avhat  vou  sav ;  none 
of  my  lovers  ever  put  forward  such  a  pretension.  A 
week!  we  might  as  well  be  married.  You  wanted  a 
smile  (to  make  a  pretty  portrait) ;  did  T  not  smile?" 
— "Yes,  but  a  smile  is  not  enough  ;  I  wish — " 

Guimard    rose    haughtily;     assumed    her    grand 


fragonard's  successcr.  405 

queenly  airs,  and  said  to  lier  painter  in  ordiiiar}-: 
"  You  wish  !  that  word  is  not  known  here  ;  it  is  not 
admitted  into  my  dictionary.  You  think,  perhai)S, 
you  are  dealing  with  a  common  figurante  of  the 
opera.  I  advise  you,  Monsieur  Fragonard,  to  gather 
up  your  brushes,  and  go  and  paint  elsewhere.  A 
pleasant  journey  to  you!  As  for  the  money  I  owe 
you,  you  can  talk  to  my  steward  about  it." — "  Fare- 
well, Madame  Goddess,"  said  the  painter,  with  dig- 
nity. He  took  his  hat  and  bowed  with  an  air 
of  mockery.  '"Mirth  and  sport  attend  you;  be  ever 
fresh  and  smiling.  But  tell  me,  who  will  make  that 
jxirtrait  smile  T — "  Thank  God  !  Monsieur  Fragonard, 
I  am  not  at  the  end  of  my  smiles." — "He  laughs 
well  who  laughs  the  last." 

He  departed  rpiite  convinced  that  Guiinard,  would 
recall  him;  for  who  would  she  find,  unless  it  were 
Greuze,  to  finish  that  portrait  worthily?  Kow,  Greuze 
liad  quite  different  mattei-s  to  attend  to.  The  next 
day,  Fragonard  went  to  the  window  twenty  times ; 
always  thinking  that  he  heard  the  approach  of  the 
dancer's  carriage.  She  did  not  recall  him.  The 
noise  of  his  disgrace  was  hardly  spread  abroad, 
before  three  or  four  painters  presented  themselves  to 
finish  the  saloon,  if  not  the  portrait.  The  dancer 
chose  the  most  delicate  and  corpiettish  pencil ;  it  was 
another  pupil  of  Boucher,  who  created  loves  and 
scattered  roses  as  if  by  enchantment.  Perha[)S,  he 
had  not  all  the  grace  of  Fragonard,  but  the  dancer, 
accustomed  to  operatic  decorations,  did  not  take  a 
close  view  of  those  nuitters.  She  was  so  well-con- 
tented with  her  new  painter,  that  she  commajidcd 
liim  to  fini.sii  the  portrait. — "I  shall  never  dare  to 

37* 


400  MADKMOISKLLK    GUIMAKD. 

ask  you  to  sit  t'nr  tlic  smile." — "Take  courasie." — 
The  yoniiii;  painter  did  not  take  the  smile  for  her,  as 
Fragonard  liad  done;  he  took  it  for  the  portrait;  he 
succeeded,  l>y  some  means,  in  painting  that  month 
that  had  been  the  theme  of  all  the  madri^alists 
of  the  time. 

Ihit  Fragonard,  Avhose  passion  was  now  only  a 
repressed  anger,  did  not  consider  himself  beaten. 
One  day,  uK^re  and  more  overcome  by  this  anger,  he 
ventured  as  far  as  the  temple  of  Tei'psichore,  resolved 
to  brave  everything,  even  the  haughty  dancer  lierself. 
As  he  was  going  to  enter,  he  saw  the  carriage  of  the 
goddess  come  out.  He  entered  without  ceremony; 
the  attendants,  left  at  liberty,  had  abandoned  their 
posts,  to  chat  in  the  neighborhood  or  in  the  pantry. 
Fragonard,  wlio  knew  the  road  well,  called  no  one  to 
guide  his  steps  in  that  labyrinth  of  love  where  every 
one  found  a  thread  to  untwist.  He  reached  the 
saloon  without  meeting  a  soul.  The  young  painter 
liad  just  stei)ped  into  the  garden,  which  was  a  very 
garden  of  Armida;  and,  as  he  re-entered  the  house, 
he  was  disagreeably  struck  by  the  pretty  smile  of  the 
jtortrait,  which  was  still  upon  the  easel. — "Really, 
she  is  charming.  I  should  not  have  caught  more 
grace  and  voluptuousness  myself" 

He  looked  at  it  with  some  surprise ;  the  portrait 
seemed  to  look  him  in  the  face  with  an  air  of  mockery 
He  walked  for  awhile  in  the  saloon,  a  |»rey  to  a 
thousand  ideas  of  vengeance.  There  was  a  palette  and 
brushes  in  tlie  room  ;  his  revenge  is  at  hand.  With 
three  or  fum-  strokes  of  the  bi'ush  he  effaces  the  smile ; 
Jie  hits  upon  the  expression  of  wrath  and  fury  without 
injuring  the  resemblance  of  tl.e  portrait.    Never  vv'as 


AN    ACCOMMODATING   PORTRAIT.  407 

sacrilege  more  suddenly  consummated.  Hardly  La'!, 
lie  given  it  the  final  touch,  and  was  departing,  better 
pleased  than  if  he  had  produced  a  masterpiece,  when 
lie  stopped  in  terror;  he  hears  the  sound  of  a  carriage ; 
it  is  Guiinard  returnins::  with  two  lovers  and  a  female 
friend,  the  latter  something  nnusnal.  The  dancer, 
delighted  with  her  portrait,  wished  to  judge  of  the 
delight  of  others.  She  entered  the  saloon  in  triumph ; 
Fragonard,  in  despair,  barely  had  time  to  crouch  be- 
hind the  easel. 

"Look,  prince!  look  how  that  portrait — "  The 
dancer  turned  pale. — "  Charming,"  said  the  Prince 
de  Soubise,  who  had  not  yet  seen  it. — "Stay!"  said 
Guiniard,  "am  I  mad?  can't  I  see  clear?" — "A 
veiy  good  likeness,  really,  my  dear  friend,"  said 
Sophie  Arnould. — "But  don't  you  see?  it  is  all  very 
well  for  you;  you  woukl  pay  a  compliment  to  the 
three  Fates.  That  little  dauber  has  spoiled  all. 
"Was  any  one  ever  disfigured  like  that?" — "Wiiat 
does  all  this  mean  ?"  asked  the  Marcpiis  de  Bievres. 
— "  I  do  not  understand  it  at  all.  Just  now,  I  was 
smiling  with  all  the  grace  in  the  world,  but  now — " 
— "But,  my  dear,"  said  Sophie  Arnould,  "I  assure 
you,  you  are  very  like  your  portrait ;  it  is  the  same 
wrath  and  the  same  passion  ;  just  look  in  the  glass! 
AVlio  knows  but  this  portrait  has  the  power  to 
change  its  countenance,  like  the  original?" — "Tiie 
b(^st  of  it  is,"  said  the  marquis,  kissing  the  dancers 
haiul,  "that  it  is  the  only  ])orti'ait  like  the  oi'igiual 
that  I  ever  saw  in  my  IIIl'.  Look  if  it  has  not  the 
appearance  of  bursting  with  rage.  I  have  more  than 
once  hull  tlic  distinguislied  advantage  of  seeing  you 
in  that  lim-  of  your  talents.     Do  not  tell  me  of  n  por- 


408  MADEMOISELLE    GUIMARD. 

trait  that  smiles  ;  we  smile  to  every  one ;  tbe  smile  is 
liie  bluntest  of  the  arrows  of  love ;  but  we  grant  to 
very  few  the  favor  of  seeing  us  in  a  passion." 

History  does  not  tell  us  whether  tbe  painter  re- 
touched tbe  portrait.* 

You  have  seen  Guimard  at  court  and  in  her  palace. 
AVould  you  like  to  see  her  at  Longchamps  the  2!.)tb 
of  March,  1768?  It  happened,  that  on  that  day 
of  tbe  gloomy  passion-week,  there  was  the  loveliest 
spring  sunshine.  All  tbe  magnificence  of  Versailles 
ami  Taris  was  splendidly  spread  out  on  the  prome- 
nade; but  among  all  the  carriages  the  most  admired 
was  Guinuird's,  drawn  by  four  horses;  it  was  less  a 
carriage  than  a  car,  "  worthy,"  says  a  journal, 
"  of  containing  the  exquisite  graces  of  the  niodcj'n 
Terpsichore." — Kothing  was  wanting  to  that  eipii- 
page,  neither  the  most  mettled  and  spirited  horses, 
nor  tbe  prettiest  painting^J,  nor  the  most  enthusiastic 
adorers ;  nothing  was  wanting,  not  even  a  coat-of- 
arms.  In  the  middle  of  tbe  scutcbeon  Avas  seen  a 
golden  mark,  whence  issued  a  mislctoe;  the  graces 
acted    as  sup[)0]ters,   :ind    the    Loves  crowned    the 

*  Tliis  adventure  has  had  a  second  edition.  Girodct  had  painted 
the  portrait  of  Madeiiioisolie  Tjange,  another  (Juimard,  ratlier  less 
brilliant.  The  aclress  refused  the  |)ortrait,  saying  it  was  not  like  lier. 
— "  No  one  would  ever  recognise  me  in  that  ugly  face." — "  Very  well, 
rnadeinoiselle,  I  shall  find  a  way  to  make  you  recogni^^ed." — 'J'he 
angry  (lainter  set  to  work.  He  painted  Mademoiselle  Lange  as 
Danae ;  hut,  ir.stead  of  a  shower  of  gold,  it  was  a  shower  of  crown- 
pieces  that  besprinkled  the  boudoir  of  this  second  Danae.  In  one  cor- 
ner a  turkey  was  strutting. — "Is  it  like  you  this  time  J"  said  the 
painter,  who  had  greatly  iini»roved  upon  his  model. — "Very  like," 
said  the  actress,  who  did  not  understand  the  allegories  at  all.  She 
hung  the  portrait  up  in  her  parlor,  and,  like  (iuimard,  v.ent  to  ask  the 
opinion  of  her  friends. — "  Very  like,"  exclaimed  the  lively  company, 
bursting  with  laughter. 


THE  SUPPORT  OF  A  GODDESS-         409 

gliield. — '•Everythiug  is  ingenious  in  tliat  emblem," 
adds  the  journal. 

It  was  not  enough  for  Mademoiselle  Guimard  to 
have  a  temple  at  Paris ;  the  queen  had  pleasure- 
liouses ;  the  goddess  of  the  opera  built  a  pleasure- 
house  at  Pantiu,  Hear  Bachaumont  :^"Z^cc<; ////»(';• 
Mth^  17G8.  There  is  much  talk  of  tlie  magnilicent 
spectacles  given  at  her  superb  mansion  at  Pantin,  by 
Mademoiselle  Guimard,  so  renowned  for  the  elegance 
of  her  taste,  her  unparalleled  luxury,  and  the  philoso- 
piiers,  wits,  and  people  of  talent,  of  every  class,  who 
compose  her  court,  and  make  it  tlie  admiration  of  the 
age.  Our  good  authors  dispute  with  unc  aiiother  the 
privilege  of  being  acted  at  her  theati'c,  and  for  her 
amusement;  and  our  celebrated  actors,  the  privilege 
of  playing  to  please  her.  'J'he  Prince  de  Soubise  is 
always  of  the  number  of  spectatois.  Is^o  one  is  ad 
mitted  to  these  entertainments  until  after  lie  has 
been  admitted  at  court.  The  entertainments  of  Nero 
Were  not  e(pnd  to  these." 

Mademoiselle  (riiimard  was  celebrated,  among 
other  reasons,  fur  her  suppers,  which  were  the  nu^st 
wonderful  in  Paris.  She  gave  tliree  a  week,  the  first 
composed  of  the  greatest  lords  of  the  court;  the  sec- 
ond of  poets,  artists,  and  savants,  who  had  eaten  a 
bad  supper  the  night  before  at  Madame  Geoffrin's  ; 
tiie  third  w^as  not  a  6U])per,  but  an  orgy  composed  of 
jictresses  of  ever}'  sort,  and  peoi)le  of  every  quality. 
Thus  on  Tuesday,  this  dancer  <]ueened  it  "uncercmo- 
niou>ly  among  the  noblest  names  of  France  ;  on 
Thur>day,  >he  had  a  court  of  savants,  who  taikcil  to 
her  of  Saj)j>ho  and  Xinon  ;  of  artists  who  paiiitc»l 
her  in  every  style  (Boucher  metanioi'j)hused  her  into 

35 


410  MADEMOISELLE   GUIMAKD. 

a  shepherdess,  and  Fi-iigonard  into  Diaiiu  the  liiint- 
ress) ;  of  poets  like  Dorat  and  Mannontel,  who  sang 
her  graces  with  the  same  voice  that  tliey  sang  the 
praises  of  the  queen.  On  Saturday,  she  constituted 
herself  the  goddess  of  pleasure  and  presided  at  the 
banquet  of  folly. 

But  the  destinies  and  the  hlllovjs  are  changeable. 
Six  months  after  these  wonders,  Bachaumont  in- 
scribes on  his  tablets:  "Mademoiselle  Guimard, 
M'hosc  talents  for  dancing  are  the  delight  of  Paris,  is 
on  the  eve  of  bankruptcy;  she  has  suspended — her 
entertainments."  The  Prince  de  Soubise  having 
cause  to  com[)lain  of  her,  because  she  had  three  or 
four  more  lovers  than  usual,  had  just  stopped  her 
pension  of  a  thousand  crowns  a  week,  which  he  had 
paid  her  for  a  long  time.  "  And  only  to  think,"  said 
the  celebrated  dancer,  '•  that  I  want  but  four  hundred 
thousand  livres  to  appease  a  few  of  my  creditors!" 
Bachaumont  thus  ends  his  page  upon  this  great  event, 
which  occupied  all  Paris :  "  It  is  hoped  that  some 
EniJ:lish  h»rd  or  Gernum  baron  will  come  to  the  as- 
sistance of  Terpsichore.  A  new  shame  for  the  Fi-ench, 
if  a  stranger  sets  them  that  example!" 

We  are  not  at  the  end  of  the  story.  Mademoiselle 
Guimard  could  not  console  herself  ft)r  the  departure 
of  the  Prince  de  Soubise;  in  her  grief  she  com- 
plained to  the  men  who  fluttered  about  her  charms 
at  the  opera.  She  had  not  to  comitlain  long.  She 
said  one  evening:  "If  I  only  had  a  hundred  thou- 
sand livres  to-morrow  !"  The  next  day,  a  magnificent 
carriage  drawn  by  four  hoi'ses,  stojjs  at  her  hotel ;  an 
unknown  ]>ersonage  presents  himself  before  the  sov- 
ereign.   "  Mademoiselle,  the  hundred  thousand  livres 


51AEKIAGE   OR   DEATH.  411 

a: 3  there  in  my  carnage;  there  are  besides,  thirty 
thousand  livres  for  emergencies." — "  Yery  good,  my 
lord,"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Guimard ;  "I  have 
no  horses,  drive  yours  into  my  stables."  Bachau- 
iiiont  does  not  fail  to  inscribe  tbis  adventure  on  his 
tablets.  He  adds  :  "  We  are  not  yet  informed  of  the 
name  of  tbis  magnificent  personage,  well  worthy  to 
be  inscribed  in  the  annals  of  Cythera.  He  is  be- 
lieved to  be  a  stranger,  Avliich  is  a  reproach  to  French 
o-allantrv."  Bachaumont  would  have  done  well  to 
have  ended  liere  as  above  witb  an  exclamation 
point. 

This  person,  who  remained  imknown,  carried  his 
folly  so  far  as  to  wish  to  marry  Mademoiselle  Gui- 
mard. Never  did  a  woman  show  herself  so  fright- 
ened at  such  a  proposition.  It  is  true  that  the  lover, 
not  being  able  to  prevail  upon  her  by  fair  means, 
wished  to  compel  her,  pistol  in  liand.  She  had  no 
other  resource  but  to  send  her  powerful  friends  to  the 
lieutenant  of  police,  to  beseech  him  to  protect  her 
from  such  violence.  The  lieutenant  of  police  was  in 
great  perplexity ;  if  the  lover  proceeded  to  any  ex- 
tremity against  the  goddess  of  the  opera,  all  Paris 
would  be  in  revolution.  He  repaired  in  hot  haste  to 
Mademoiselle  Guimard's :  "So,  mademoiselle,  he 
shows  himself  an  insolent  fellow." — "Yes,  sir,  an  in- 
solent fellow  who  lias  the  audacity  to  ask  me  in  mar- 
riuge  —  am  I  my  own  mistress?" — "No,  you  l)elong 
to  all  France.  And  as,  in  order  to  get  married,  you 
would  have  to  renounce  the  opera,  the  devil,  his  pomps 
and  woi-ks  ....  Don't  be  alarmed,  mademoiselle, 
we  will  watch  over  you." — "But,  M.  Lieutenant  ot 
police,  consider  that  liis  pistols  are  loaded.    He  hard- 


412  MADEMOISELLE   GUIMARD. 

]y  grants  me  six  weeks  to  inalce  up  my  mind."— 
'•  Ci)mit  upon  ns ;  in  six  weeks  this  ill-bred  man  sliali 
be  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  even  at 
the  opeia."  The  denouement  was  tragic.  Having 
received  orders  to  retni-n  instantly  to  Germany,  this 
enraged  German  prince,  who  dareci  to  pretend  to 
the  hand  of  a  French  dancei-,  departed,  but  carried 
oti"  Guimai'd  ;  wlio,  probably,  would  never  have  been 
seen  again  at  the  opera,  had  not  the  Prince  de  Sou- 
bise  pursued  the  ravisher  with  all  the  apparatus  of 
war.  The  attack  was  spirited,  the  defence  heroic. 
Three  dead  remained  upon  the  field  of  battle ;  the 
ravisher  was  severely  wounded,  but  Guimard  M'as 
saved!  The  Prince  de  Soubise  made  himself  mas- 
ter of  the  carriage  in  which  she  had  fainted. 

The  Prince  de  Soul)ise  then  returned  to  her  more 
desperately  in  love  than  ever ;  he  even  showed  him- 
self so  jealous,  that  Monsieur  de  Bordes,  who  had 
ruined  himself  for  the  pleasure  of  being  leader  of  the 
orchestra  and  chapel-master  to  the  dancer,  was  re- 
quested not  to  present  himself  at  her  house  for  the 
future,  after  sunset. 

And  here  may  I  not  produce  in  evidence  these 
two  unpublished  letters;  the  first  to  the  Prince  de 
Soul)ise,  the  second  to  Monsieur  de  Boixles  ? 

"My  Lord  and  Master:  Is  this,  then,  cruel  one, 
the  reward  of  all  my  sacrifices  ?  What  have  I  done 
for  you?  or  i-at!ier  what  have  I  not  done?  What! 
you  talk  of  abandoning  me  !  Can  I  live  without  you? 
for  have  you  not  accustomed  me  to  the  expenses  of 
royalty?  It  was  well  worth  my  while  to  sacrifice 
to  you  lords  and  barons  who  Avere  willing  to  ruin 
themselves  for   me.     Dear  Soubise,  believe  me,  I 


LETTER    OF    A    GODDESS.  418 

loved  jon,  I  still  love  yoii,  I  will  always  love  jon,  as 
the  sons  savs.     It  is  all  in  vain  :  I  do  not  believe  a 
word  of  your  letter,  nor  you  do  not  believe  it  either. 
You  wished  to  laugh  at  my  sorrows  ;  be  content,  I 
have  wept.     Yes,  I  have  wept,  and  you  know  I  am 
not  a  fountain  of  tears.    "What  are  my  griefs  ?    Have 
I  not  become  the  slave  of  your  caprices  ?     One  even- 
ing, you  remember,  you  wished  (just  as  I  was  going 
to  bed)  that  I  should  dance  the  gargoiiillade^  in  the 
most  simple  costume  ;  it  was  ridiculous  for  me,  much 
more  than  for  you,  nevertheless,  I  danced.     Could 
you  be  jealous  of  any  one  ?     Docs  not  your  rank  put 
you  above  such  a  prejudice  ?     Besides,  you  know,  if 
I  dance  for  everybody,  my  heart  only  dances  for  you. 
Y'ou  look  upon  Monsieur  de  Bordes  with  an  evil  eye  : 
vou  are  quite  wrong;  Monsieur  de  Bordes  is  not  a 
man,  he  is  a  musician.      Marmontel  gives  you  of- 
fence ;  a  poet !      Why,  wc  do  n't   rhyme  together. 
To  return  to  Monsieur  de  Bordes,  do  not  forget  that, 
to  please  you,  I  have  forbidden  him  my  door  the  mo- 
ment the  sun  sets;  I  had  even  given  him  his  dismis- 
sal in  due  form,  but  the  poor  man  would  liave  died 
of  grief ;  lie  came,  threw  himself  on  his  knees,  and 
wept  like  a  child  ;  for  my  part,  I  was  quite  softened, 
I  burst  out  laughing,  and  I  did  not  feel  cruel  enougli 
to  drive  him  away,  for  he  said  to  me:  '  Drive  me 
away  like  a  dog,  if  you  will  not  sec  me  any  more.' 
You  are  very  difficult  to  get  along  with,  my  dear 
Soubise.     If  you  kncAv  how  well  that  poor  man  plays 
on   the  violin  !   my  feet  arc  beginning  a  minuet  at 
tlie  very  thought  of  it.     Let  us  say  no  more  about 
him  ;  I  feci  I  am  becoming  sad.    Come  and  see  me: 
I   have  no  longei    heart  for  anytliing ;  1  am  capa 

35*        " 


4^14  MADEMOISELLE   GUIMAKD. 

blo  of  proceeding  to  any  extremity.  Wonld  yon 
believe  that  I  sometimes  tliink  of  liiding  myself  in  u 
convent?  Ah!  crnel  one,  how  much  more  agree- 
able it  would  be  for  me  to  hide  myself  in  your  arms  i 

"  GuiMAKD. 

"  P.  S. — If  you  will  not  come  and  see  me,  come 
at  least  and  get  your  letters  and  purse.  Alas  !  your 
purse  is  like  your  heart,  there  is  nothing  in  it." 

"My  Deak  Orpheus:  I  was  right  when  I  told 
you  the  prince  would  be  angry;  he  takes  your  affair 
quite  seriously.  You  understand,  my  dear,  that 
your  heart  is  not  inexhaustible,  like  Soubise's  purse. 
So  let  us  stop  where  we  are,  and  postpone  our  love 
to  better  times.  In  ihe  meantime,  try  to  console 
yourself;  and  as  I  have,  perhaps,  had  a  hand  iu 
ruining  you,  I  have  just  set  you  down  for  a  pension 
of  twelve  hundred  livi'es  for  your  pocket-money. 
For  other  matters  I  am  not  uneasy  ;  you  are  a  man 
too  well  bred  not  to  get  invitations  to  dinner  and 
supper.  Besides,  a  man  Avho  plays  so  well  on  the 
violin  is  never  at  a  loss.  In  our  old  days,  if  Fortune 
turns  her  back  upon  us,  we  will  unite  our  talents 
and  our  miseries.  "We  must  be  prepared  for  every- 
thing, it  is  the  philosopher's  rule  ;  but  for  fear  of  mor- 
alizing, which  I  am  not  used  to,  I  lay  down  my  pen. 

"  GuLAtAHD." 

The  Prince  de  Soubise  had  again  become  the  very 
humble  servant  of  all  the  dancer's  whims.  She 
wished  to  iiave  a  light  of  chase,  for  herself  and 
her  friends,  in  the  king's  hunting-grounds.  The 
prince,  who  was  captain  of  the  royal  forests,  granted 
her  one  of  the  best  cantons.   She  had  herself  painted 


MYSTERIES    OF    THE    OPERA.  415 

a;  Diana  the  Inintress,  and  amused  licrself  by  deliv- 
ering to  the  noblest  lords  permits  to  hunt. 

She  found  great  obstacles  in  the  Duke  de  Riche- 
lieu and  the  archbishop  of  Paris,  to  the  reopening 
of  her  city  theatre  ;  but  as  she  had  more  friends  tJian 
these  two  great  personages,  she  succeeded  in  re- 
opening. Truth  in  Wine  was  to  be  given,  but  the 
archbishop  succeeded  in  preventing  tlie  representa- 
tion of  that  piece.  "  It  seems,"  said  the  dancer, 
"  that  my  lord  is  unwilling  that  truth  should  come 
out  of  the  cask  any  more  than  the  well." 

A  few  days  after,  she  condescended  to  dance  a 
little  ballet  befoi-e  the  kino;.  The  king  utfered  her  a 
l)ension  of  fifteen  hundred  livres  :  "  I  accept,"  said 
she  on  account  of  tlie  hand  it  comes  from;  "for," 
she  added  as  she  departed  from  the  king,  "•  it  is  a 
drop  of  water  in  the  sea ;  it  is  hardly  enough  to  i)ay 
the  candle-snuffer  at  my  theatre." 

If  you  wish  to  penetrate  into  the  mysteries  of  the 
opera  in  the  eighteenth  century,  deign  to  cast  a  glance 
upon  this  epistle  to  Mademoiselle  Guimard,  and  the 
sirens  of  that  dangerous  sea.  It  is  a  frightful  pic- 
ture of  the  manners  of  the  court  and  city  in  1775, 
signed  by  a  Tnrl\  a  'mcml)er  of  all  the  Malioraetan 
academies..  "I  can  iii»t  behold  without  admiration, 
the  high  ])r>int  of  glory  which  you  and  your  compan- 
ions have  reached.  Sweet  license,  under  the  name 
of  liberty,  has  at  last  o])ened  the  career  to  our 
boundless  desires;  you  triumjih,  divine  enchantresses, 
and  your  seductive  charnis  have  changed  the  face 
of  France  C)ur  palaces  and  hotels  are  now  but  the 
dtdl  i-etreat  ./f  gloomy  Ilymen,  where  indolent  wives 
languish    in   ennui,   imder  the    guaivl    of   ))owdered 


416  MADEMOISELLE   GUIMARD. 

portci's,  ^vl.o,  like  the  niiirhle  at  the  door,  serve  mere- 
ly to  point  out  the  hotel  of  the  master,  and  tlie  prison 
of  his  sad  lielpmatc  ;  while  lively  youth  crowded 
in  your  little  dwellings,  make  them  the  abode  of 
love  and  sport,  and  your  suppers  are  everywhere  the 
despair  of  the  great.  Sovereign  of  fashion,  is  it  not 
YOU  who  set  them?     Your  taste  determines  them; 

»  7 

the  dimensions  of  your  j)lumes  become  the  common 
standard.  The  woman  who  studies  at  her  glass  to 
copy  you  in  detail,  in  order  to  please,  dares  not  imi- 
tate you  on  a  grand  scale,  or  follow  nobler  models. 
Divine  age,  that  treads  under  foot  prejudice  and  law, 
that  confounds  all  conditions  and  ages,  that  conse- 
crates all  excesses,  thou  shalt  l)e  for  ever  celebrated 
in  history  !  It  is  to  you  and  your  friends  that  we 
owe  tliis  luippy  revolution  in  our  manners,  to  all  of 
you  belongs  the  glory,  and  you  enjoy  "it.  Whether, 
di'awn  in  your  elegant  chariots,  you  adorn  the  dusty 
Boulevards ;  or  as  feathered  nymphs,  with  your  haii 
elegantly  dressed  and  covered  with  a  thousand  orna- 
ments, you  eclipse  in  the  front  boxes  the  modest  ma- 
tron ;  or  whether,  at  the  monotonous  Colysee,  with 
lofty  front  and  bold  eye,  3'ou  display  your  charms, 
and  draw  in  your  train  an  eager  crowd  —  are  not  all 
eyes  turned  upon  you  ?  Modern  Pantheon,  thou 
unitest  all  our  divinities,  and  all  our  homage  ! 
Your  ])rivileges,  divinities  of  the  day,  arc  as  great 
as  sacred,  and  why  should  ijn-y  not  be?  Since 
this  happy  revolution,  nothing  stops  you,  there  are 
no  more  obstacles  in  your  way.  Hymen  turned 
to  ridicule,  dare  hardly  show  himself.  You  a]i])car 
])ublicly  in  your  lovci-s'  carriages,  you  wear  their  liv- 
eries, thoir  colors,  often  their  wives'  diamonds;  youi 


THE   KING    AND   THE    GODDESS.  411 

little  mansions  everywhere  arise  from  the  ruins  of 
great  ones,  and  form,  bv  their  number,  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  capital  and  on  the  Boulevards,  a  sort  of 
enclosure,  a  circumvallation,  M'liich,  by  keeping  it  in 
a  state  of  blockade,  assures  you  the  empire  of  it  for 
ever.  You  take  pleasure  in  general  for  your  aim,  all 
men  for  your  object,  and  the  public  happiness  for  the 
end  of  your  sublime  speculations.  Yes,  ladies,  you 
are  the  true  luxurv,  essential  to  a  s^veat  state,  the 
powerful  attraction  that  draws  strangers  and  their 
guineas ;  twenty  modest  matrons  are  worth  less  to 
the  royal  treasury  than  a  single  one  among  you ;  you 
belong  t«i  no  rank  of  society,  and  are  on  a  level  with 
all,  and  are  the  wives  jmr  excelJence  of  everybody." 

In  1777,  Mademoiselle  Guimard  was  still  leadins: 
the  same  course  of  life  ;  listen  to  a  journal,  "  Octo- 
her  Vlth.  Ttie  parody  of  the  opera  of  Eruclide, 
which  was  played  at  Mademoiselle  Guimard's,  has 
been  repeated  at  Clioisy,  on  the  eve  of  the  depailure 
to  Fontainebleau.  The  king  was  so  well  pleased 
with  it  that  he  has  given  a  pension  to  the  author 
Despreaux,  a  dancer  of  the  f)pera.  We  may  judge 
by  this  favor  how  much  of  the  freedom  of  the  good 
old  times  his  majesty  yet  possesses,  and  how  fund  he 
is  of  a  laugh."    "That  good  Louis  XVI. ! 

''^  Deceraher  1. — The  same  parody  was  again  rep- 
resented on  Monday  at  Mademoiselle  Guimard's. 
The  performance  commenced  at  ten  o'clock,  before 
the  most  august  assembly,  composed  of  ]u-inces  of 
the  blood,  several  ministers,  aiul  a  number  of  the 
great  men  of  tlic  kingdfim." 

T  ask  yon,  what  more  was  there  at  court,  except  a 
tedious  king? 


41 S  MADEMOISELLK    GUIMARD. 

In  1T70,  we  timl  Mademoiselle  Guiiiiard  conduct' 
ing  a  revolntion  at  tlie  opera,  yet  more  serious  than 
that  of  the  sin >rt  petticoats  which  took  ])lacc  under 
Camargo.  The  subject  of  forbidding  the  right  of 
maternity  to  the  dancers  was  discussed,  and  it  was 
Guimard  who  prevented  violent  measures,  and  wlio 
said  at  the  meetings  :  "  Above  all,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, no  combined  resignations  ;  thafs  what  ruin- 
ed the  parliament." 

She  had,  however,  a  serious  passion  :  a  poor  offi- 
cer of  fortnne,  who  i)lajed  comic  parts  at  her  theatre, 
captivated  her  by  the  intelligence  and  melancholy  of 
Ills  liandsome  head.  She  had  not  time  to  love  him, 
but  she  wept  for  him  with  the  tears  of  love.  lie 
was  killed  in  a  duel  by  one  of  lier  lovers.  AVhen 
the  latter  came  to  announce  to  Guimard,  that  he  had 
just  killed  a  fellow  who  had  maintained  to  him  he 
was  not  loved,  she  gave  herself  up  to  unbounded 
sorrow,  and  said  to  him  passionately  :  "  No !  I  do 
rot  love  you;  it  was  he  whom  I  loved." 

About  17S0,  [Mademoiselle  Guimard  almost  falls 
into  oblivion.  Here  and  there  the  gazettes  make  a 
passing  mention  of  her  beautiful  style  of  dancing  at 
the  theatre,  and  pirouetting  in  life.  But  it  is  a  sub- 
ject out  of  fashion  ;  people  cease  to  ruin  themselves 
for  her  caprices ;  she  is  too  well  known  in  every 
respect  to  excite  further  curiosity.  Thus  passes  re- 
nown ;  we  view  its  approach  M'ith  ai-dor;  we  strew 
branches  of  laurel  in  its  path,  and  place  immortal 
crowns  upon  its  bi-ow.  When  once  arrived  we  treat 
it  as  an  old  friend  who  teaches  us  nothing  new.  We 
see  it  depart  without  regret,  scarcely  taking  time  tc 
bid  it  farewell. 


THE    END    OF    A    GODDESS.  419 

What  became  of  Guimard  after  lier  fabulous  tri- 
nmplis  ?  These  gipsies  of  the  opera  appear  witliout 
telling  us  where  they  come  from,  and  disappear 
without  telling  ns  whither  they  go.  "Was  she  si- 
lently extinguished  at  a  church-door  like  one  of 
her  brilliant  companions  ?  Did  she  keep  for  her 
dvins  dav  a  little  of  her  scandalous  fortune  and  her 
mournful  glory  ?  Did  she  awake  in  terror,  like  Fra- 
gonard,  her  i)ainter  in  ordinary,  in  another  world, 
that  is,  in  the  republic  one  and  indivisible?  All  we 
can  assert,  without  doubt,  is,  that  she  died  alone, 
without  gaininij;  a  tear,  a  rei^ret.  or  a  remembrance, 
unless  it  were  fiom  the  prodigal  sons  she  had  ruined. 
But,  as  God  forgets  not  the  alms  that  are  given  with 
two  hands,  the  hand  of  fortune  and  the  hand  of  the 
heart,  much  will  be  forgiven  her  on  high.  To  give 
alms  is  to  do  penance ;  it  is  to  remember  God  ;  it  is 
to  take  the  path  to  heaven  ! 

I  could  still  have  wished  to  pass  over  in  silence 
the  end  of  this  gallant  career.  She  who  called  her- 
self the  rival  of  a  queen,  who  contended  in  mag- 
nificence with  a  king  —  she  who,  in  her  character  of 
goddess,*  considered  marriage  too  fjir  beneath  her, 
ended  by  marrying,  instead  of  a  German  prince,  the 
Sienr  Desjjreaux,  ^>/Yy/"t^<f.S'or  o/"  ^//<?  graces  to  the  Con- 
sein^atory^  with  whom  she  died  in  silence  at  a  virtu- 
ous abod(3  in  the  Afai'ais. 

•  A  sculptor  has  moulded  licr  foot,  wliirli  I  have  under  my  hand. 
It  i*  the  fjot  of  Diana  the  liuntress,  hnunhty,  ilelicatr,  divine!  Prax- 
iteles never  cut  in  mari)le  n  foot  more  riuiije  and  imjiabHioiied. 


80PIIIE    AENOULD. 


It?  tlie  eigliteentli  century,  tliere  flonrislied  in 
France,  a  wild  garland  of  beautiful  women,  who  are 
almost  all  worthy,  from  their  genius,  of  Leing  re- 
niemhered  with  tlie  courtesans  of  Greece.  There 
was  an  Aspasia,  who  taught  lessons  of  government, 
if  not  of  eloquence,  to  Louis  XV.  who,  it  is  well 
known,  was  not  altogether  a  Socrates,  or  a  Pericles  ; 
a  Lais,  a  Leontium,  a  Phryne,  a  Thais,  a  Thargelia, 
who,  under  the  names  of  Dubarry,  Guimard,  La- 
guerre,  Gaussin,  and  Sophie  Arnould,  enchanted 
Yersailles  and  Paris,  the  court  and  the  theatre.  And 
as  in  ancient  Greece,  Thais  found  her  Aristippus,  Le- 
ontium her  Epicm'us;  —  I  am  not  speaking  of  disci- 
ples ; — Phryne  her  Praxitiles,  Thargelia  her  Xerxes  ; 
in  France,  all  these  wild  and  beautiful  creatures,  with 
the  exception  of  Marion  Delorme,  or  Ninon  de  Len- 
clos.  Pompadour,  or  Dubarry,  were  trained  up  in  the 
theatre,  the  theatre,  the  scJiool  of  morals! 

There  are  some  severe  people  who  would  condemn 
at  once  without  giving  them  a  hearing,  all  these 
women  who  were  alike  gay  and  sad,  "as  pei'verse 


HER    BIETH,  421 

creatures  iinwoi-thv  the  memory  of  man ;  sinners 
without  repentance,  who  died  in  mortal  sin."  This 
is  what  they  say  in  their  indignation,  without  a  sin- 
gle tear  of  charity  for  these  lost  sisters.  They  are 
wrong.  I  do  not  present  myself  as  the  bad  advocate 
of  a  bad  cause.  Thank  God,  the  altar  of  Bacchus 
is  overthrown,  Yenns  drowned  in  tears;  sentiment 
triumphs.  The  grape  reddens  on  the  hillside;  but 
tlie  sonl  has  now,  more  than  ever,  wings  which  raise 
it  to  the  splendors  of  tlie  heavens.  ^Notwithstanding, 
I  can  not  help  feeling  a  compassion  which  is  entirely 
religions  in  its  nature,  for  some  of  these  women  that 
I  often  meet  on  my  ])ath  in  tracing  out  the  more  se- 
rious liistory  of  the  eighteenth  centurj'.  As  they  had 
a  large  share  of  the  snn  of  their  day,  that  familiar 
histor}',  which  is  appropriate  to  literature  and  the  arts, 
which  records  on  the  same  page,  opinions  and  follies, 
persons  and  passions,  in  a  word,  true  character, 
should  give  a  glance  at  those  personages  mIio  liave 
been  too  much  despised.  The  honest  histoi-ian  should 
be  bold  enough  to  go  everywhere.  Nothing  that 
either  flourishes  or  fades  under  the  sun  is  unworthy 
of  Ids  study  ;  the  muse  is  a  perpetual  virgin,  that  trav- 
erses the  w<jrld  without  soiling  the  whiteness  of  her 
feet.  Moreover,  this  is  but  a  simple  portrait  in  pastel, 
with  a  smile  upon  the  lips,  a  shade  ujion  the  brow,  a 
bourpiet  of  roses  u])on  the  bosom. 

Sophie  Arnould  was  born  in  Paris,  in  the  midst 
of  the  carnival,  in  the  year  1740.  She  was  born  in 
tlie  old  mansion  of  Ponthieu,  Hue  Bcthisy,  in  the  bed- 
chamber whei'e  Admiral  dc  Coligny  was  assassina- 
ted, and  where  the  beautiful    Duchess  of  I^lontbazon 

06 


422  SOPHIK   ARXOULI). 

died.  "I  entered  tlie  world  tliroii^h  u  celebrated 
door,"  Sophie  Arntmld  used  to  saj.  While  she  was 
yet  a  child,  her  mind  had  received  a  certain  hue  of 
romance  from  the  memor}'  of  the  amours  of  Madame 
de  Montba/.on,  and  ]\[onsieur  de  Hance.  This  nld 
mansion  of  Ponthieu  had  become  a  hotel  imder  the 
management  of  tlio  father  and  mother  of  So]>hie 
Ariiould,  These  good  people  had  five  children  ;  l)ut 
thanlcs  to  their  good  inclinations,  and  the  revenue  of 
the  hotel,  these  children  Avei-e  brought  up  with  a 
pious  and  affecting  care.  Sophie  Arnonld  had  mas- 
ters like  a  young  lady  of  good  family  ;  a  music- 
master,  a  dancing-master,  a  singing-master.  She 
earlv  save  evidence  that  she  would  sing  in  a  way  to 
entice  all  the  world  ;  never  had  an  ancient  syren 
vaunted  by  the  poets  a  voice  more  full  of  freshness 
and  melody.  Iler  mother  knew  that  this  voice  was 
a  trcasnre.  "  AVe  shall  be  as  rich  as  princes,"  So])hie 
Arnould  used  to  say  wlien  a  child  ;  "  a  good  fairy 
was  present  at  my  birth,  who  endowed  me  with  the 
power  of  changing  at  the  sound  of  my  voice,  every- 
thing into  gold  and  diamonds ;  others  vomit  toads 
and  serjK'nts,  but  I  M'ill  pour  out  floods  of  pearls,  ru- 
bies, and  topazes."" 

Iler  mother  took  her  to  some  ivligious  comnnmi- 
ties  to  sing  rerpiiems.  One  day,  at  Val-de-Grace, 
the  Princess  of  ^lodena,  who  had  gone  into  retire- 
r-nent  there,  liaving  heard  the  charming  voice  of 
Sophie,  ordered  her  to  come  to  her  liotel ;  the  young 
girl  had  already  considerable  sprightliness  of  conver- 
sation, she  chatted  with  the  grace  and  sweetness  of  a 
bird  ;  she  succeeded  in  charming  the  duchess,  mIio 
eaid    to  her,  aiviui;  her  a  necklace:  "Mv  beautiful 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  THE  OPERA.         423 

girl,  yon  sing  like  an  angel,  yon  have  more  gcnins 
than  an  angel !  yonr  fortnne  is  made." 

From  that  day  the  name  of  Sophie  Arnould  be- 
came cnrrent  in  the  world  ;  her  grace,  her  Leantifnl 
eyes,  her  repartees,  bnt  especially  her  enchanting 
voice,  were  spohen   of   everywhere.      Monsienr  de 
Fondpertnis,    the    minister  of    the    court-pleasnres, 
came  one  day  in  his  coach  to  take  her  to  the  Mar- 
chioness de  Pomi)adonr.     "  I  forbid  yon  saying  a 
word,"  said  the  noble  conrtesan,  "  do  not  speak  bnt 
sing."     Sophie  sang  without  nrgiiig,  some  of  Phili- 
dor's  songs;  never  did  a  nightingale  shake  out  of  her 
throat  so  many  pearls,  never  did  its  song  of  spring- 
tide penetrate  the  grove  with  more  freshness ;  it  was 
the  dew  of  the  morning  which  glistens  in  the  sun's 
rays.     Madame  de  Pompadour  applauded  with  en- 
thusiasm.    "  Young  girl,  yon  will  make  some  day  a 
charming   princess."     Madame   Arnould    who  was 
present,  fearing  that  her  daughter  was  to  play  too 
liiirh  a  part  on  this  earthly  stage,  replied  to  the  mar- 
cliif/ness  :  "  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  ;  my  daugh- 
ter has  not  sufficient  fortune  to  marry  a  jirince ;  on 
the  other  hand,  she  has  been  too  well  brought  np  to 
become  a  princess  of  the  theatre." 

Notwithstainling,  from  that  day,  Sophie  Arnould 
was  on  tiie  road  to  the  opera.  In  order  not  to  alarm 
her  mother,  she  was  first  told  that  her  daughter  was 
enrolled  only  for  the  music  of  the  king;  but  soon 
Francfeur,  superintendent  of  the  royal  music,  urged 
Sophie  to  enter  the  opera,  telling  iier  that  she  owed 
a  duty  to  France,  as  well  as  to  the  king,  and  lliat  all 
the  hearts  in  the  kingdom  wonld  beat  with  ])leasure 
in  listening  to   her  divine   music. — "To  go  to  the 


424  SOPHIE   ARNOULD. 

opera,"  she  said,  "is  to  go  to  the  devil,  but,  how- 
ever, tliat  is  my  fate !" — We  are  all  the  same  :  v/e 
lay  our  faults,  whatever  thej  may  be,  at  the  door 
of  fate.  ]\Iadame  Arnould  opjoosed  it  with  all  the 
authority  of  a  mother. — "  It  is  not  to  the  opera,  but 
to  a  convent  you  shall  go,"  said  she  to  Sophie,  as  she 
locked  her  nj)  in  her  room.  Fortunately  fur  the  devil, 
%vho  never  foregoes  his  rights,  the  king  of  France 
deigned  to  mingle  in  the  pleasures  of  the  public;  he 
signed  an  order  connnanding  So])hie  to  be  conducted 
to  the  opera,  under  the  authority  of  the  law.  The 
poor  mother  did  not  yet  despair  of  saving  that  virtue 
which  M^as  already  so  much  subdued  ;  she  watched 
over  her  life  with  the  greatest  solicitude;  she  accom- 
panied her  to  the  opera,  even  to  the  green-room. 
The  rakes  of  1757  might  flutter  about  the  singer;  the 
only  favor  they  obtained  was  the  overpowering  look 
of  the  mother ! 

Sophie  Arnould  made  her  first  appearance  at  the 
age  of  seventeen.  A  jounuilist  of  the  time  thus  de^ 
scribes  her  api)earance  at  the  opera:  "She  is  the 
most  natural,  the  most  unctuous,  the  most  charming 
actress,  that  ever  was  seen.  She  is  not  beautiful,  but 
she  has  all  the  attractions  of  beauty.  She  has  not 
been  spoilt  by  masters  ;  she  comes  forth,  just  as  she 
is  from  the  hands  of  Nature :  in  consequence,  her 
delmt  was  a  triumph  !" — The  journalist  was  in  error. 
Soijhie  Arnould  had  had  masters,  and  she  again 
took  others.  Mademoiselle  Fel  taught  her  the  art 
of  singing;  Mademoiselle  Clairon  taught  hci-  the  art 
of  acting. 

Fifteen  days  after  her  first  appcai'ance,  Sophie 
Arnould  was  worshipp^ed  by  all  Paris.     When  she 


A   LOVE   KUSE.  425 

appeared  the  opera  was  overwhelmed. — '-I  doiiht," 
said  Freron,  "  whether  people  will  give  themselves 
as  much  trouble  to  enter  Paradise." — All  the  gentle- 
men of  the  day  disputed  with  each  other  the  glory 
of  throwing  bouquets  at  her  feet  whenever  she  ap- 
peared behind  the  scenes.  She  passed  along  care- 
lessly, as  if  she  had  been  always  accustomed  to  walk 
upon  flowers.  Madame  Arnould,  who  was  herself  a 
woman  of  some  cleverness,  used  to  say  to  tliese  im- 
portunate gentlemen :  "  Do  not  sti-ew  thorns  upon 
her  path!" — But  her  mother  might  do  her  best; 
might  open  wide  her  large  eyes ;  Love,  M'ho  is  as 
blind  as  a  bat,  managed  to  slip  in  between  her  and 
her  daughter.  Among  the  young  noblemen  who  ob- 
stinately persevered  in  hovering  about  Sophie,  the 
Count  de  Lauraguais  was  tlie  most  desperately  en- 
amored of  her:  he  was  resolved  upon  victory.  He 
tried  at  first  to  carry  oif  the  beauty  from  behind  the 
scenes :  this  first  attempt  failed.  As  he  had  a  genius 
for  such  things,  and  was  fond  of  adventure,  he  con- 
trived a  plan  that  was  more  piquant.  One  evening 
that  he  was  supping  with  some  friends,  he  declared 
to  them  that  1»etbre  a  fortnight  liad  i)asscd,  Madame 
Arnould  would  not  conduct  her  daughter  anv  longer 
to  the  opei'a.  Xext  moi-ning  a  young  ]u-ovincial  poet 
put  up,  under  the  name  of  Dorval,atthe  Hotel  Lisieux. 
Ilis  respectable  a|)pearance  and  his  modest  air  struck 
^Afadame  Amould.  He  related  to  her,  with  a  great 
a])i)earancc  of  artless  simjjlicity,  the  object  of  his 
l<nn-nev:  he  ha<l  left  behind  him  in  l^fonnandv  his 
mother,  "who  ivscndjles  you,  madamc,"  and  his 
sister,  "who  resembles  Mademoiselle;  Soj)liie,"  in 
order  to  seek  1  is  fortune  in  Paris  as  a  literary  man. 

36^ 


*2(i  SOPIIIK   ARNOULD. 

— "Poor  cliild!''  exelainicd  ]\[a(liiine  Anioiild,  "why 
did  you  not  remain  with  yonr  inotlicr  and  your 
sister?" — "Do  not  despair  yet.  I  have  a  tracjedy 
Avitli  nie  Avorthy  of  being  played  hy  Lekain  arid 
CUiiron.  Oh,  how  many  niii-lits  of  deliffht  have  I 
spent  over  tliis  work  of  my  youtli !  To  tell  you  tlie 
triitli,  it  was  not  only  glory  that  smiled  npon  me, 
it  was  also  love!" — As  he  spoke,  Dorval  cast  the 
glance  of  a  serpent  upon  Sophie,  who  listened  to  him 
with  all  the  curiosity  of  her  lieart. — "Yes,  madame, 
there  is  in  my  country  a  beautiful  girl,  a  l)i-nnette, 
full  of  life  and  spirit,  made  by  love  and  for  love :  I 
love  her  to  madness  I" — "That  is  a  delightful  mad- 
ness," sighed  Sophie,  carried  away  by  the  impassioned 
manner  of  the  newly-arrived  lodo-er. — "A  delia'htful 
madness!"  said  the  mother,  assuming  a  severe  look; 
"I  would  not  advise  you,  my  daughter,  to  foil  into 
it.  As  for  you,  sir,  you  are  nmch  to  be  pitied  for 
having  come  to  I*aris  to  seek  your  fortune  in  the 
company  of  poetry  and  love  !  To  be  in  love  and  to 
be  a  poet  at  the  same  time,  is  to  be  doubly  ruined  !" 
— "I  am  not  of  your  opinion,"  said  Dorval,  while  re- 
garding Sophie  with  passion;  "have  I  not  all  the 
treasures  of  the  heart  in  mv  hand  ?" — "That's  enouffh 
nonsense  for  to-day,"  said  Madame  Arnould,  inter- 
rupting them ;  "  Monsieur  Dorval,  besides,  is  fotigued, 
no  doubt.  There  is  the  key  of  his  room." — "Alas!" 
thought  Sophie,  who  already  loved  to  play  upon 
words,  "he  carries  off  the  key  of  my  heart!" 

Love  is  everlastingly  forced  to  play  a  part,  to 
make  use  of  masks,  surj^rises,  and  deceptions.  The 
love  which  goes  straight  ahead  upon  the  great  com- 
mon highway  never  arrives,  but  dies  half-way;   but 


AN    ABDUCIIOX.  427 

tli3  love  wliich  travels  by  a  concealed  path  never 
misses  its  object ;  it  takes  by  snrprise,  and  all  is 
accomplished.  AVomen  seek  something  besides  love 
in  the  heart  of  man ;  they  seek  also  intrigue.  They 
always  appreciate  the  romance  which  is  i)repared  to 
overcome  them,  for,  for  them,  love  is  a  romance. 
The  more  it  is  involved,  the  more  it  entices  them. 
The  Count  de  Lauraaruais  understood  women  well. 
Arriving  from  !N^ormandv,  in  the  character  of  an  art- 
less  and  imaginative  poet,  who  comes  to  Paris  to 
seek  fflorv  with  which  to  crown  his  mistress,  was  it 
not  presenting  himself  like  a  veritable  Don  Juan  at 
the  feet  of  an  actress,  who,  at  first  sight  was  ready 
to  give  him  her  heart?  It  must  be  said,  to  the  j^raise 
of  Sophie  Arnould,  that  she  had  never  taken  notice 
of  the  count  de  Lauraguais  behind  the  scenes  of  the 
opera,  where  he  always  appeared  with  the  importance 
of  an  hereditary  prince.  She  loved  Dorval  at  first 
sight,  who  appeared  to  her  in  tiie  sad  condition  of  a 
poor  poet  from  the  provinces. 

The  conquest  was  ra})id ;  at  the  end  of  a  week 
Dorval  carried  ofi"  So))hie  from  the  Hotel  Lisieux. 
Xever  was  a  ravishment  more  gentle  and  impas- 
sioned ;  he  carried  her  in  his  arms  fully  half  an  hour. 
He  had  made  an  a])pointment  with  his  lacquey,  but 
he  had  mistaken  the  street.  Half  a  century  after- 
ward, the  Count  de  Lauraguais  having  become  a  peer 
of  France,  and  Duke  of  Draiicas,  descril)ed  this  ro- 
mantic ravishuient  with  all  the  fire  of  youth  :  "Siie 
was  Psyche,  I  was  Zei»hyr.  I  had  wings,  the  wings 
of  love.  Poor  frightened  turtle-dove!  slie  lay  so 
lightly  u])on  my  bo^oni  that  I  wa>^  afraid  of  her  Hying 
away.     She  began  to  weej).     'What  will  my  mother 


i5S  SOPHIE    ARNOULD. 

Bivy  r — 'I  liave  a  liooJ  of  tliainoiids  for  yon.' — 'My 
poor  mother  I' — '  I  liave  also  a  necklace  of  the  finest 
]iearls.' — '"Wiio  ^vill  console  her?' — 'By-the-l>y,  I 
forgot  to  tt'll  you  that  I  have  hired  a  little  hotel  for 
yon,  somewhat  better  furnished  than  the  Lisieux  ho- 
tel.' "  At  this  moment,  the  count  succeeded  in  lind- 
inn;  his  carriage;  "Tlie  remainder  may  be  guessed, 
that  is  the  reason  I  say  nothing  about  it." 

This  event  put  the  whole  court  and  ciry  in  connno- 
tion  ;  Madame  Lauraguais  and  Sophie  Arnould  were 
both  pitied.  It  is  known  that  the  Count  de  Laura- 
guais defied  public  opinion,  like  a  beautiful  gii-1  du- 
ring the  carnival,  who  changes  her  disguise  each 
day.  Sophie  was  already  the  fashion  in  the  world  of 
wicked  passions.  Her  fame  shone  with  a  si)lendid 
brilliancy  ;  she  had  never  before  been  compared  but 
to  Oi'pheus,  she  was  now  compared  to  Sappho  and 
Ninon.  As  she  possessed  a  fluent  readiness  of 
speech,  a  great  freedom  of  thought,  and  a  Avanton 
grace  of  style,  it  was  soon  settled  that  she  had  gtitli- 
ered  the  heritage  of  Fontenelle  and  Piron  ;  eveiy  one 
of  her  repartees  ]\asscd  from  mouth  to  mouth,  froiiiYer- 
sailles  to  the  Courtille.  She  was  celebrated  by  the  whole 
])leiad  of  the  poets,  the  warblers  of  the  times.  This 
was  not  the  whole  of  her  glory  ;  the  whole  Encyclo- 
psedia  met  at  her  house,  in  order  to  study  philosophy  in 
full  liberty  :  it  must  be  mentioned  that  the  sui)j)ei's  at 
Sophie  Arnould's  were  better  than  any  others.  Proud 
of  her  success  in  society,  she  did  not  forget  the  opera, 
the  true  theatre  of  her  glory ;  she  always  sang  with 
a  fresh  and  melodious  voice  ;  slie  acted  besides  with 
all  the  grace,  and  all  the  sentiment  of  a  great  ac- 
tress.    GaiTick,  dm*ing  his  visit  to  Paris,  declared 


THE    WIFE    AXD   TUE    MTSfllFSS.  429 

that  Mademoiselle  Amoiild  was  the  only  actress  of 
the  opera  that  pleased  his  e^yes,  and  moved  his 
heart. 

In  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  the  court,  tlie 
Count  de  Lauraguais  continued  to  live  with  her  un- 
der the  same  roof.  Madame  de  Lam-aguais,  who  Avas 
a  model  of  an  injured  woman,  sold  her  diamonds  in 
order  that  her  husband  might  do  honor  to  his  ranh  ; 
but  God  only  knows  how  many  diamonds  it  would 
have  been  necessary  to  sell,  in  order  to  support  tlio 
luxury  of  Sophie  Arnould :  her  hotel  Avas  a  palace, 
her  saloon  a  rich  museum,  her  toilette  fit  for  a  fairy. 
In  the  midst  of  such  a  life  of  wild  and  profuse  ex- 
pense, would  it  be  believed  ?  the  Connt  de  Laura- 
guais and  Mademoiselle  Amould.  loved  each  other 
with  the  tenderest  affection. 

Four  years  passed  in  this  way,  to  the  great  snr- 
prise  of  the  friends  of  the  count  and  of  the  singer. 
Never  did  such  a  love  take  its  rise  upon  tlio  boards 
of  the  opera.  Sophie  Arnould,  as  nn'ght  be  i;na- 
gined,  was  tiie  first  to  grow  weary  ;  during  the  count's 
absence  for  a  short  time,  she  decided  that  it  was 
time  to  break  the  connection;  she  did  not  mIsIi  to 
keep  anytliing  of  his,  she  ordered  a  can-iage,  put  her 
jewels  into  it,  her  laces,  her  letters,  all  that  remind- 
ed her  of  the  ha])])iness  she  had  had  in  his  comjiany. 
"Go,"  said  she  to  her  lacquey,  "order  the  cari'iagc 
to  drive  to  the  house  of  Madame  de  Lauraguais;  all 
that  it  contains  belongs  to  her."  When  tlie  laccpiey 
was  about  obeying  her  orders,  she  called  him  back  : 
"Wait,  I  have  forgotten  one  very  important  matter." 
She  sent  for  her  waitinj'  women,"  Tiriny;  me  the  count's 
two  children.     Thev  certainly  belonj;  to  him,*'  said 


430  SOPHIE   ARNOULD. 

she  as  she  walked  backward  and  forward  in  liei 
apartment.  The  two  children  Avere  brought,  one  was 
still  in  his  cradle,  the  other  had  just  begun  to  lisp  a  few 
words.  She  kissed  them  both  and  bid  them  farewell. 
"  Here,"  said  she  to  her  lacquey,  "  La  Prairie,  take 
these  children  in  the  carriage,  and  cany  them  off 
with  the  rest  of  the  things."  La  Prairie  obeyed  with- 
out saying  a  word ;  he  drove  straight  to  the  Hotel 
Lauraguai?!,  where  the  countess  was  all  alone.  The 
poor  woman  i-eceived  the  children  and  sent  back  tiie 
jewels.  The  women  of  the  eighteenth  century  have 
been  often  reviled ;  ought  not  this  act  do  a  great  deal 
in  the  way  of  absolution  ?  are  there  not  a  great  many 
Women  of  the  present  day  who  would  have  kept  the 
jewels,  and  sent  back  the  children  ? 

The  love  of  the  two  lovers  did  not  end  here.  Af- 
ter some  iididelitv,  thev  returned  to  the  first  starting- 
point.  It  had  created  great  scandal,  it  was  still 
greater  when  the  reconciliation  became  known.  The 
count  made  several  journeys ;  it  is  understood  that 
during  his  absence,  Sophie  Arnould  allowed  her 
heart  to  go  a  travelling.  "  Oh  !  cruel  one,"  said  the 
count  to  her  on  his  return,  "  you  have  been  a  greater 
traveller  than  I  have  been." — "  A  rolling  stone  gath- 
ei-s  no  moss,"  she  replied,  "but  alas !  my  heart  has 
gathered  a  good  deal  of  ennui.  Tiie  Prince  dTIe- 
nin,  was  nearly  the  death  of  me  with  his  bouquets, 
his  madrigals,  and  his  money  ;  it  was  a  veritable 
shower  of  love." — "  Wait,"  said  the  count,  "  I  will 
deliver  you  from  tliis  troublesome  prince."  On  the 
same  day,  11th  Febi-uaiy,  1774,  he  called  together 
four  doctors  belonging  to  the  faculty  of  Paris  :  "  I 
have  an  imjjortant  question  for  your  decision,"  said 


EETTKES    FROM    THE    OPERA.  431 

be  to  tlicni  ^vith  great  gravity ;  "  I  want  to  Icnow  if  it 
is  possible  to  die  of  enmii."  After  a  profound  de- 
liberation, the  doctors  decided  the  question  in  the 
affirmative.  They  justified  their  0])inion  in  a  long 
preamble,  and  then  signed  it  with  the  most  serious 
air  in  the  world.  "  Aiid  its  remedy?"  asked  the 
count :  they  decided  that  it  was  necessary  that  the 
mind  of  the  patient  should  be  diverted,  tliut  there 
should  be  a  change  of  scene  and  of  society.  With  this 
writing  in  his  possession,  the  count  went  straight  to  a 
commissioner,  to  make  a  charge  against  the  Prince 
d'llenin,  of  worrying  Mademoiselle  Arnould  with 
attentions,  to  the  extent  of  killing  her  Avitli  ennui. 
"I  demand  in  consequence,  an  injunction  iipmi  the 
prince,, to  prev^cnt  him  from  visiting  the  singer  until 
she  is  free  from  the  disease  of  ennui,  with  which  she 
is  attacked,  and  which  will  be  her  death  in  the  opin- 
ion of  the  faculty,  which  would  be  a  public  as  well 
as  a  private  misfortune."  It  n>ight  be  guessed  that 
such  a  joke  would  end  in  a  duel.  The  prince  and 
the  count  fought  with  each  other  to  such  good  —  or 
bad — purpose,  that  on  the  very  evening  of  the  duel, 
they  met  each  other  at  the  house  of  Sophie  Arnould. 

A  little  while  before  the  revolution,  slie  abandoned 
the  theatre,  the  passions  of  the  opera,  and  the  passions 
of  the  world,  for  retirement  in  tiie  country.  She  imi- 
tated A''oltaire,  Clioiseul,  Ijoiifflers  :  she  was  enthusi- 
astically fond  of  farming,  like  the  queen  Marie-An- 
toinette; she  kept  cows  and  sheep;  she  nuide  l)utUT 
and  cheese ;  she  made  her  own  hay  and  gathered 
lier  own  j)eas. 

In  the  midst  of  the  revolution  she  sold  her  little 
est^ite,  in  order  to  buv  a  house  at  Lu/archcs  which  had 


432  sorniK  arnould, 

l>clongecl  to  the  peiiitotit?  of  tlie  third  order  of'Fi-an 
eif^caiis.  As  she  was  always  clever,  she  had  the  follow- 
ing inscription  put  over  licr  door:  Ite  tnissa  est.  She 
busied  herself  about  her  salvation  and  death.  Tiiis 
Avonum,  who  like  a  Magdalen,  had  made  her  heart 
the  sport  of  every  Avind  of  the  spring,  had  ]>rofaned 
lier  soul  by  all  kinds  of  wicked  love,  prepared  her- 
self for  death  Avith  a  kind  of  cloistral  voluptuousness. 
At  the  end  of  her  ])ark,  in  a  ruined  convent,  she  had 
built  her  tomb,  and  inscribed  upon  the  stone  the  fol- 
lowing passage  from  Scripture  : — 

Mnlta  remittunlur  ei  peccata,  quia  dilexil  multum. 

Would  it  be  believed?  The  sans-culottes  of  Luzarches 
disturbed  her  in  her  retreat,  taking  her  for  a  mm! 
They  made  a  domiciliary  visit  one  morning  to  the 
house  of  the  penitents. — "My  friends,"  said  she,  "1 
was  born  a  free  woman ;  I  have  always  been  an  ac^ 
ive  citizen,  and  know  the  rights  of  man  by  heart." — 
The  sans-culottes  would  not  trust  to  her  word  ;  they 
were  about  taking  her  to  prison,  when  one  of  them 
observed  a  marble  bust  upon  a  bracket;  it  was 
Sophie  Arnould,  in  the  character  of  I])higenia;  this 
man,  deceived,  no  doubt,  by  the  scarf  of  the  priestess, 
thonght  it  was  the  bust  of  Marat. — "  She  is  a  good 
citizen  woman,"  said  he,  as  he  bowed  to  the  marble 
bust. 

Sophie  Arnoidd  had  still  left  an  income  of  thirty 
thousand  francs,  and  friends  without  end.  In  less 
than  two  years,  she  lost  all  her  fortune  and  her 
friends.  She  returned  to  Paris  with  a  few  things 
saved  from  the  wreck.  A  bad  lawyer,  who  liad  the 
management  of  her  property,  succeeded  in  com])let)ng 


ITER   MISERV.  433 

her  rnin.  She  fell  into  absolute  misery  and  profound 
6olitnd(;.  She  knocked  in  vain  at  the  doors  of  all  those 
wlio  had  loved  her.  She  knocked,  indeed,  at  many 
a  door,  but  it  was  like  knocking  upon  their  tombs ! 
those  who  had  loved  her  were  no  lono-er  there.  The 
prison,  exile,  and  the  scaffold,  had  dispersed  them 
for  ever.  She  was  reduced  to  the  extremitv  of  askin"; 
aid  from  a  hair-dresser  who  had  dressed  her  hair 
during  her  better  days.  This  man  lived  in  the  rue 
Petit-Lion,  lie  gave  her  an  asylum,  but  in  a  miser- 
able nook,  without  light  and  without  a  fireplace, 
where  the  poor  woman  shivered  with  cold  and  wasted 
away.  She  paid  dearly  for  her  past  greatness ;  cer- 
tainly Mary  ]\Iagdalen  never  underwent  so  severe  a 
penance.  Notwithstanding,  she  still  sung. — "That 
voice,"  says  a  biographer,  "which  resounded  like 
thunder  in  Arniida,  and  which  faintly  sighed  in 
Psyche,  vras  heard  mingling  in  the  mystic  concerts 
of  some  obscure  religious  sects  ;  the  reflection  upon 
the  uncertainty  of  events  and  the  mystery  of  fate, 
found  utterance  in  a  moan  !" 

One  day  that  she  Avas  as  usual  shivering  in  her 
room,  without  complaining,  and  not  despairing  of  her 
star,  rebuikling  for  the  thousandth  time  the- castle 
of  the  happy  days  of  her  life,  the  hair-dresser  entered 
her  chamber. — "Well!"  said  she  to  him,  good- 
naturedly,  "  is  that  the  way  to  come  into  a  room, 
without  knocking?" — "This  is,"  tinily,  the  time  Tor 
joking  I"  said  the  hair-dresser,  with  an  angry  inan- 
nei';  "do  you  know  what  has  occurred?  'J'liey  cor- 
taiiiiy  take  my  wig  foi-the  sign  of  an  imi.  The  Count 
de  T —  has  just  alighted  at  my  shop." — "1'he  p(»or 
man!"    e.xchiimed    Sophia    Ai'uouhl.  —  "He    comes 

37 


434  floi'ItllO    AUNOUIJ). 

ineoo;.  froiri  Gei'iiianv,  without  a  son.  The  Lord  be 
]>i';ii6e(]  !  ]("  nil  the  ])eo|)le  Avlioge  li:iir  I  iiave  dressed 
should  coiiK!  to  inc  for  food  and  ]od<j,iii^-,  I  sliall  have 
my  share  !" 

kSophie  Aiiiould  went  d()wii  into  the  slio]x — '"Is  it 
you?  "  exclaimed  the  Count  do  T — ,  throwini;-  him- 
self u])on  her  neck. — "It  appears  to  me,  indeed,  like 
a  romance.  Exile  nnist  be  hai'd  to  bear,  since  yon  are 
willinii  to  come  back  to  this  citv,  all  deluired  in  blood, 
\vhere  you  have  no  friends.  Believe  nie,  you  M'ill 
lind  yourself  more  of  an  exile  in  Paiis  than  at  the 
court  of  the  king  of  Prussia." — "  AV^hat  matters  it  ?" 
said  the  Count  de  T — ,  "  have  I  not  found  one  heart 
that  remembers  me?" — They  embraced  each  other 
again,  and  swore  that  tliey  never  should  be  parted. 
Tlie  hair-dresser  lodged  his  new  guest  in  a  garret  in 
the  fifth  story.  At  break  of  day,  Sophie  Arnould  went 
up  stairs  to  him  with  a  cup  of  coffee  in  her  hand  ; 
they  shared  it  together,  in  a  fraternal  way,  after  which 
they  talked  of  i)ast  times,  in  order  to  try  and  forget 
somewhat  the  anguish  of  the  pi'esent.  At  diimer- 
time,  the  hair-dresser  begged  tliem  to  come  down  into 
liis  back-shop,  whei-e  they  all  dined,  the  best  they 
could,  at  the  same  table. — "I  have  only  one  table  and 
one  porringer,"  said  the  honest  fellow  ;  if  it  was  not 
for  that,  I  would  not  take  the  libei'ty  of  dining  with 
you  ;  but,"  added  he,  with  a  spice  of  roguery,  "differ- 
ent times,  different  manners!" 

A  curious  cha])ter  might  l)e  written  upon  this  in- 
terior of  the  hair-dresser,  harboring  two  such  illus- 
trious guests.  There  would  be  more  than  one  ])i(piant 
saying,  more  than  one  philosophical  thought,  moi-e 
than  one  jiictui'e  of  deej)  human  interest  to  b(!  col- 


RESTORED    HAPPINESS.  435 

lected.  It  is  very  ranch  to  be  regretted  that  Sopliie 
Arnonkl,  wlio  wrote  such  channing  letters,  did  not 
describe  in  detail  her  residence  in  the  Hue  dn  Petit 
Lion.  It  is  not  known  what  became  of  the  Count  do 
T —  ;  I  could  never  find  out  his  real  name.  The 
memoirs  of  the  daj'  say  that  he  had  been,  in  his 
youth,  "  one  of  the  handsomest  pluckers  of  grapes 
from  the  esjjcdler  of  the  opei'a." 

Sophie  found  her  good  star  again  before  death. 
Fouche  had  been  one  of  her  lovers;  having  become 
a  minister  in  1708,  he  held  one  morning  a  supposed- 
highly  important  audience  with  a  woman  who  was 
said  to  have  some  secrets  of  state  to  communicate. 
He  recognised  Sophie  Arnould,  listened  to  her  his- 
tory with  emotion,  and  decided  at  once  that  a  woman 
who  had  enchanted  by  her  voice  and  her  ej'es,  all 
hearts  for  the  space  of  twenty  years,  deserved  a  na- 
tional recompense ;  he  consequently  bestowed  upon 
lier  a  government  pension  of  twenty-four  hundred 
livres,  and  ordered  an  apartment  in  the  Hotel  d'An- 
gevilliers  to  be  given  her.  Sophie  Aiiiould,  who  on 
the  evening  befoie  was  without  a  single  friend,  found 
troops  of  them  visiting  her  at  her  new  residence. 
All  the  poets  of  the  day,  who  were  bad  poets,  all  the 
actors,  all  the  fi-equentei'S  of  the  Caveau,  assembled 
ill  hei-  house  as  if  It  had  been  anotiier  Hotel  Ilam- 
Ijouillet,  oidy,  instead  of  affected  conceits,  true  French 
gayety  ovei'flowed  there. 

It  might  be  ])0ssible,  like  the  biogiaj)li('rs,  to  (putte 
some  of  the  sayings  of  So])hie  Arnould  ;  but  this 
kind  of  wit  is  not  cmic;iit  now-a-days  among  (h'ccnt 
ft>lks;  it  is  the  wit  over  one's  wine,  as  was  said  <if 
Dancourt's  wit.     Among  the  sayings  that  might  bo 


436  SOIMIIE   ARNOULD. 

quoted  to  the  Cjlory  of  tliis  gay,  free  and  original  wit, 
let  ns  not  Ibrget  the  following  :  ]\[a(lenioisellc  Gui- 
nuird  had  writren  a  letter  to  Sophie  full  of  malice,  in 
which  the  latter  was  chari>;ed  with  having  connnitted 
the  seven  capital  sins  seven  times  a  day.  She  re- 
plied as  follows,  "  I  douhle  you^^^  and  she  signed  her 
name. 

She  had  llnlhieres  and  Beanmarcliais  for  lovers. 
She  has  been  charged  with  having  often  borrowed  lier 
wit  from  her  lovers.  Why  are  not  her  lovers  charged 
with  having  shone  with  hers  ? 

In  1802,  at  the  same  time  there  was  bnried  withont 
pomp,  withont  noise,  and  without  show,  three  women 
who,  for  nearly  half  a  century,  had  tilled  France 
with  the  brilliancy  of  their  beauty,  the  j)omp  of  their 
talent,  or  the  noise  of  their  amours;  Sophie  Ar- 
nould,  Mademoiselle  Clairon,  and  Madame  Dumesnil. 
Sophie  Arnould,  while  confessing  during  her  last 
.hour,  related  to  the  cure  of  Saint-Germain  L'Auxcr- 
.vois,  all  her  wicked  love-passions.  When  she  de- 
scribed to  him  the  fierce  jealousy  of  the  Count  de 
Lauraguais,  him  Mdiom  she  had  loved  the  most,  the 
cure  said  to  her,  "  My  good  woman,  what  liad  times 
you  have  past^ed  through." — "  Oh  !"  exclaimed  she 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  '"  they  were  good  times!  I 
was  so  miserable  !"  This  heartfelt  touch,  that  a  poet 
has  given  in  verse,  consoles  me  for  all  the  Mdclicd 
wit  of  Soplue  Araould. 


MARIE-ANTOINETTE  AT  THE  TIIIAN(»K. 

A   EUSTIC    MASK    IX    ONE   ACT, 


AT  THE  LITTLE  TRIANON'  ON  THE  BORDERS  OK  A  LAKE. 


SCENE  I. 

THE  QUF.F.N,  MAUFE-ANTOINETTE. 

Now  I  am  110  ]oni:;cr  the  queen  ;  lici'c  I  tun  simply 
a  woman,  the  Immljlest  one  in  tlie  kingdom.  God 
be  praised  !  little  birds,  celeltrate  my  j«»y  in  song  as 
yon  (\<)  your  own.  ^h\y  your  warblinii;*  rcaeli  tbo 
lieavcns  with  the  perl'iimc  of  the  roses  f  Annonnce 
to  the  God  of  Nature  that  the  best  days  of  my  life 
liave  been  ]>assed  in  this  ]»ark,  in  the  shade  of  the 
cdicstnut  ^I'oves,  u])on  this  verdant  turf,  in  the  retire- 
ment of  these  humble  cottages,  sailing  idly  in  these 
barks!  It  is  hen;  alone  that  I  can  ])artake  of  the 
blessings  of  eai'th  and  sky,  of  the  sun  and  ol"  love. 

^Sht;  iii  seated  on  the  liordcra  of  a  Ijkr,  anil  leans  lier  head  U[)i>ii  he 
haml.) 

37* 


438  MARIE-ANTOINETTE. 

SCENE  II. 

THE  QUEICN,  MADAME  DE  POLIGNAC. 

jMADAME  DE  POLIGNAC.  Maclamc,  jou  are  in  a  pen' 
sive  mood  ! 

THE  QUEEN.  All !  is  it  you?  an  agreeable  surprise  ! 
Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  of? 

MADAME  DE  POLIGNAC.  The  luippiuess  of  your  sub- 
jects. 

TiiE  QUEEN.  You  are  Avrong ;  liavc  I  any  subjects 
when  I  am  here  ?  I  was  just  in  che  iiumor  to  de- 
claim in  the  old-fashioned  way  against  the  throne. 

MADAME  DE  POLIGNAC.  Not  agaiust  the  throne  of 
beaut>'  and  of  grace. 

TUE  QUEEN.  Agaiust  the  throne  of  kings,  the  sad- 
dest prison-house  that  can  be  found  on  earth.  For- 
merly at  Yienna,  I  was  as  free  as  the  bulfinchcs 
that  sing.  I  sang  myself  then  !  Why  was  I  so  blind 
as  to  be  caught  in  the  snare  ?  You  see,  my  beauti- 
ful duchess,  you  will  never  know  in  what  chains  I 
drag  out  mv  life. 

MADAME  DE  POLIGNAC.  Cluiins  forgcd  of  flowcrs. 

THE  QUKKX.  Chains  of  flowers  !  Alas,  the  first  link 
is  Louis  XVI. ;  who  knows  who  will  be  the  last !  A 
thousand  tinlcs  lia])iiier  are  those  who  arc  born  into 
the  world  in  an  liund)1c  wicker  cradle  ;  they  do  not 
])ossess  a  kingdom,  but  they  have  their  life  to  them- 
selves. 

MADAME  DE  POLIGNAC.  No  onc  is  thc  mistress  of  her 
own  life,  God  alone  has  the  power  to  govern  all  here 
below. 

THE  QrjEEN.  Ah  !  if  I  was  not  queen  of  France; 


SCENE   THIKD.  439 

joii  would  see  how  I  would  pass  niv  life  according 
to  mvown  inclination.  AVould  God  binder  me  from 
breathing  the  free  air,  from  climbing  the  hills,  from 
plucking  the  daisy  and  the  primrose  ?  How  happy 
would  I  be  to  carry  my  rye-crust  to  the  valley,  drink 
at  the  spring,  aud  seat  myself  on  the  rock  ?  The 
bread,  tlie  water  of  the  s])ring,  all  these  would  be 
mine,  while,  as  queen  of  France,  you  know,  to  be- 
lieve those  spouting  philosophers,  the  bread  I  eat  is 
the  bread  of  my  subjects,  the  water  I  drink  is  the 
sweat  of  the  labor  of  the  people.  If  I  am  seen  to 
smile,  there  is  a  scandal  at  once,  on  the  pretext  that 
there  is  misery  in  France.  What  is  left  to  me  then, 
to  me  ?  Believe  me,  I  am  poorer  than  any  peasant- 
woman  ;  her  misery  is  blessed  of  heaven;  her  cabin 
is  in  ruins,  but  has  she  not  the  whole  valley  for  a 
dwelling-})lace  ?  has  she  not  tents  formed  by  the  green 
trees,  which  God  himself  u])holds?  In  drinking  from 
tlie  running  stream,  she  has  no  golden  goblet,  but  it 
is  much  pleasanter  to  drink  out  of  her  hand.  Be- 
sides, the  little  she  has  is  lier  own,  her  tin  plates,  her 
cotttiu  curtains,  her  coarse  linen  petticoat;  it  is  the 
fruit  of  her  labor;  and  I,  Avhat  have  I,  I  ask? 

SCENE  III. 

Tin-;  (U'EKN.  MAPAMK  1)E  POMGNAC.  COUNT  DARTOIS,  afuncard, 
•MADAMK  DE  COIONV,  AND  MADAME  D'ADHKMAll. 

cor.NT  d'aktots.  All  the  licai'ts  of  the  kintrdom, 
/oin  the  heart  of  tlie  kin*;  ...  . 

viiK  QfKKX.  Stoji :  Mlicre  there  is  nothing,  tlu'  queen 
i«.ses  lii-r  rights. 


i-lO  MARIE-ANTOINETTE. 

Well,  how  sliall  Mc  ji.oss  the  afternoon  ?  Are  we  to 
have  an  audience  of  her  majesty  the  queen  of  France 
and  Navarre,  or  of  lier  majesty,  Jeanette  tlie  dairy- 
nuiid,  with  her  bare  arms  (■  Ai'e  we  to  liave  the 
})leasure  of  behohling  tliose  wliite  hands  milkinrj  tlic 
cows  feedin<jj  vonder? 

THE  COUNT  d'aktois.  AVcll,  I  am  ready  for  anything. 
Let  the  queen  command,  and  I  am  at  the  feet  of 
Jeanette. 

the  queen  {smiling).  Rise,  count. 

THE  COUNT  d'artois  {wko  had  remained  standing^ 
falls  0)1  his  hnees).  I  obey. 

THE  QUEEN  {tuming  tovKird  Madame  de  Coigny). 
What  have  you  in  your  hand,  duchess  ? 

5IADAJHE  DE  COIGN Y.  Do  you  uot  See,  it  is  a  seal  ? 
A  rose  suiTounded  with  butterflies,  bees,  hornets,  and 
}'oung  girls. 

THE  QUEEN  {reading  the  motto).  "See  what  it  is  to 
be  a  rose."  Give  me  this  seal,  we  will  make  a  queen 
of  the  rose. 

MADAME  DE  pouiGNAc.  What  comcdv  sliall  we  pUiy 
to  dav  ?  Shall  it  be  the  Preciciises  Ridicules  f 
Who  will  be  the  audience  ?  the  kinj;  is  not  here. 

COUNTESS  d'adhemar  {in  a  v^hisjyer  to  the  queen). 
There  he  comes  ;  it  is  he.  The  Abbe  de  Yermont 
has  recognised  him. 

THE  queen  {somevihat  excited).  Ladies,  I  am  not 
in  the  humor  to  day  for  a  comedy ;  I  have  a  passion 
for  solitude  at  present.  In  the  evening,  perhaps,  we 
may  return  to  Our  usual  }»leasant  amusements,  m 
the  meantime,  I  will  have  a  rcvery  under  the  shado 
(.f  my  willow  that  I  ])lanted.  Would  it  not  seem  that 
I  IukI  prepared  a  shade  for  my  tondj. 


scp:ne  fol'Kth.  441 

THE  ccuKT  d'artois.  The  f[ueen  lias  put  on  crape, 
I  Y'iW  not  say  upon  her  cro\vn,  but  upon  her  heart. 
Beauty,  is  it  not  '^orn  to  smile  ? 

MADAME  i)K  I'or.iGXAC.  There  are  some  tears  more 
hcautii'ul  than  smiles,  is  it  not  so,  Madame  de  Coig- 
nv  ?     Yuu  know  it  is  so,  you  who  weep  so  ajn'oj^os  ! 

MADAME  DK  coiGXY  (itvVA  ail  cur  of  vexation).  I  do 
not  hide  myself  in  order  to  weep. 

viiK  QUEEN-  {ir/ij)(fth'nfli/).  Flap  your  wings,  my 
pretty  birds,  go  warble  elsewhere  yom*  gay  babble, 
do  me  the  favor  of  giving  me  an  horn*  of  solitude.  Sol- 
itude is  the  counsellor  of  kings. 

THE  COUNT  d'artois.  Solitude  is  good  for  kings  but 
not  for  queens. 

THE  QUEEN  {addrcssing  Madame  d" Adhemar'). 
I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

(The  count,  after   a  low  bow,  accompnnies  Matlame  de  Polignac,  and 
Madame  de  Coigny  toward  the  great  Trianon.) 


SCENE  IV. 

THE  QUKEN  AND  jrADAME  D'ADUEMAR. 

MADAME  d\\1)Iii;.mak.  I  did  not  hope  to  see  you  so 
Boon  all  alone. 

THE  QUEEN.  You  say  then  that  he  is  yonder? 

MADAME  d'adhemar.  Ycs,  vondcr  with  the  garden- 
ers,  whom  he  is  giving  some  good  lessons,  according 
to  tlie  abiie.  It  is  full  a  week  now,  since  he  has  been 
in  tlie  hj!.l)it  of  coming  here  to  walk.  I  was  far  from 
8ns|>ecling  that  it  was  iiim,  I  thought  he  had  been  in 
exile.  The  ])oor  fellow!  he  lias  not  the  air  of  a  lord 
by  any  means. 

THE  QUEEN.  IIc  Is  liowcvcr  a  great  lord  in  his  way 


442  M  AltlE- ANTOI^s'ETTE. 

Most  great  loids  ineivly  represent  a  name,  lie  rop  -e- 
scnts  a  man,  and  sucli  a  man !  lie  lias  L^-own  greai 
with  good  and  liad  passions ;  the  ])assi()ns  are  tlie 
coiUiicts  of  philosophy.  His  genins  at  least  dotis  not 
smell  of  the  college,  it  has  the  fi-eshness  of  a  solitan' 
valley.  How  eloquent  he  is  at  the  sight  of  Nature  ! 
if  God  is  liis  master,  Nature  is  his  school.  He  lis- 
tens and  he  sings.  His  is  the  voice  of  the  woods  and 
the  brooks ;  his  is  a  heart  whidi  speaks,  and  not  the 
echo  of  a  book.  The  writers  of  the  c:reat  Sice  almoiifc 
all  exhale  the  flavor  of  the  liarren  dust  of  the  liltrR- 
ry  ;  in  him  there  is  a  good  rustic  flavor.  Olliere  ava 
mere  echoes  of  a  youth  passed  among  books  :  Eous- 
seau  is  an  echo  of  a  youtli  passed  on  the  mountains. 
He  recalls  the  pasture,  the  snow,  the  periwinkle  ;  he 
makes  you  breathe  the  air  of  the  forest.  Others  take 
you  to  walk  in  a  royal  garden,  on  straight  and  well- 
swept  walks  ;  instead  of  listening  to  the  wild  conceits 
of  the  storm,  the  hymns  of  the  morning,  the  songs 
of  the  evening,  you  hear  the  music  of  the  hai-p. 

MADAAfE  d'adukmak.  I  ]»assed  backward  and  for- 
ward by  him,  in  order  to  have  a  good  look  at  him  ; 
he  is  hardlv  tamed  vet :  the  other  day  Monsieur  do 
Saint  Fargeau's  dog  attacked  him ;  Monsieur  de 
Saint  Fargeau  thinking  him  hurt,  ran  to  him  all  in  i\ 
fright :  "  Can  I  be  »if  any  service  to  you  ?•' — "  Chain 
up  yom-  dog,"  was  all  the  replj' :  he  might  pass  for  a 
Diogenes,  don't  you  think  so  ?  wlien  he  caught  sight 
of  me,  he  put  on  the  look  of  an  owl. 

THE  QUEEN.  Of  an  owl  that  looks  at  the  sun.  It 
was  your  beauty  that  dazzled  him. 

.MADA^iE   D'AniiKMAii.    Hc   lookod   at  me  with   a 


SCENK   FOURTH.  443 

stealthy  glance,  ti-ying  to  conceal  himself  among  the 
trees. 

THE  QUEEN.  He  IS  there  !  If  he  should  recognise 
ine  ?  fortunately  he  has  never  seen  me. 

MADAME  d'adhemae.  But  if  hc  sccs  yoii,  ho\v  can 
he  help  recognl;>ing  the  queen  ? 

THE  QUEEN.  lie  is  a  savage  —  he  only  half  looks  at 
the  women.  My  dress,  besides,  has  nothing  about  it 
whicii  can  discover  me.  I  will  assmne  an  air  of  iii- 
differonce  ;  do  vou  think  that  the  orardeners  will  snc- 
ceed  in  bringing  him  to  us  within  the  enclosure  of 
the  little  Trianon  ? 

MADAME  d'adhemak.  The  Abbe  de  Vermont  has 
performed  his  part  admirably :  beholding  him  at  the 
gate  lo>t  in  a  revery  without  crossing  the  thresliokl, 
he  ar^ked  the  gardeners,  as  he  made  signs  to  them, 
if  the  little  Trianon  was  opened  to  day  for  strangers. 
"It  will  be  in  half  an  hour,"  the  gardeners  replied. 
"  I  will  wait  then,"  said  the  abbe,  "  and  I  also,"  said 
the  savage.  Thereup(»n  he  approaches  the  gardeners 
to  talk  over^sith  them  their  plans  without  further 
ceremony.  In  a  few  minutes  the  abl»e  will  return, 
he  svill  follow  without  doubt,  although  he  may  not 
care  to  take  the  same  jiath. 

THE  QUEEX.  lIc  would  uot  like  to  come  this  way 
if  he  should  see  us. 

MADAME  D'AryllEMAK.    WllO  kuOWS  ?       It    is  Oulv  tllG 

ii:en  he  avoids.  If  there  were  all  women  in  this  M'orld, 
Gc<l  preserve  us  I  perhaps  he  would  be  m(»rc  sociable. 

\\\)i  QUEE.v.  Is  not  that  him  that  I  see  through  the 
gate? 

MADAME  d'adiiemai:.  Ycs,  tliut's  tlic  uuin  of  Irutb 
and  of  luiturc. 


44-i  MAKD-rANTOINKTTE. 

THE  QUEEN.  Do  jou  SGG  hliii  ?  liorc  he  coiiKis  bciian: 
xini!;.     But  see  how  pale  I  am,  and  liow  I  blush  ! 

^[ADAME  t/adiiemau.  You,  bet'orc  whom  the  whole 
world  gi'ows  pale  and  blushes  ! 

THE  QUEKN.  I  oul  V  believed  in  the  majesty  of  titles, 
and  I  tremble  before  the  majesty  of  genius. 

MADAME  d'adhemak.  Tou  See  that  he  is  n  t  afraid 
of  ns  ;  he  has  been  told,  that  he  would  perhaps  meet 
some  German  or  Flemish  women. 

the  queen.  Admirable.  Let  ns  go  without  cere- 
mony, and  ask  him  what  he  is  doing  at  the  Trianon. 

SCENE  V, 

THE  SAME,  JEAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU. 

MADAME  d'adhemar  {speoktug  with  a  German  ac- 
cent). Will  you  accompany  us  to  see  this  retreat? 
We  are  strangers  ;  what  village  is  this  ? 

JEAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU  {bowing).  I  am  a  stranger 
myself,  and  live  at  a  great  distance  from  the  court. 
1  came  here  for  nature,  which  shows  itself  here  and 
there,  although  they  are  doing  their  best  to  conceal 
it.    I  can  not  tell  much  of  what  passes  at  the  Trianon. 

THE  QUEEN.  The  walls  of  the  court  are  not  so  high, 
but  what  is  doins;  there  can  be  seen. 

JEAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU.  I  always  pass  by  without 
looking  that  way.  Is  it  worth  the  trouble  to  raise 
one's  head  to  behold  the  follies  of  the  court,  ween 
one  is  obliged  in  spite  of  himself  to  witness  the  folly 
of  the  t^)wn?  Dressed  in  siik  or  linen,  is  it  not 
always  the  same  folly? 

THE  QUEEN.  You  scc  the  world  without   its  illi- 
sions. 


BOfiiTPj  Fmn.  445 

.rF-,A2;-JACQirES  EoussEAL'.  I  See  the  world  as  it  ia. 
Is  it  not  our  folly  which  makes  lis  all  go  to  listen  to 
the  denouemeKt  f  God  calculated  on  our  tolly,  in 
creating  the  world.  So,  what  does  the  spectator  be- 
hold 'i  the  spectacle  of  folly. 

THK  QUEKX  {(uidc).  He  is  mad.  {Aloud)  Folly, 
if  vou  will :  what  matters  if  it  is  asrreeable  ?  You 
know,  without  doubt,  from  hearsay,  what  goes  on 
here ;  what  these  cottages  are  for,  why  these  cows 
arc  pasturing  in  the  (]ueen's  park  ?  This  is  by  no 
means  a  mystery  at  Paris. 

JEAN-.IACQUES  ROUSSEAU.  I  should  givc  but  a  poor 
account  of  what  I  know  so  little  about. 

THE  QUEEN.  What  is  the  origin  .... 

.TEAX-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU.    Louis  XIV.  dcsigucd    tllC 

Grand  Trianon,  to  have  a  refuge  from  Versailles  du- 
ring his  days  of  amorous  pleasure :  Louis  XV.  de- 
signed the  Petit  Trianon,  in  order  to  liave  a  refuge  from 
the  Grand.  It  is  here  that  Madame  Dubarry  had  the 
train  of  her  petticoat  borne  by  a  negro,  while  wait- 
ing the  good  jd'iasure  of  the  king.  It  is  a  charming 
]thice  ;  why  must  we  stumble  against  such  recollec- 
tions? Fortunately,  the  queen,  Marie-Antoinette, 
has  diffused  here  tlie  perfume  of  her  grace  and  beauty. 

TUE  QUEEN  {catching  her  hreath).  Have  you  seen 
tlie  rpieen  ? 

.lEAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU.  I  luivc  uot  sccu  her,  but  I 
have  imagined  hei*.  She  had  for  lier  masters,  Maria 
Thuresa,  ^letastasio,  and  (iluck  ;  she  knows  that  the 
Ijlood  ol"  the  Civsars  Hows  in  her  veins.  II<»w  could 
she  fail  to  liave,  I  will  not  say,  the  nobility  and  dig- 
nity of  a  queen,  but  ol"  a  woman? 

Tin:  QUEEN.  Yes,  the  Abbe  Metastasio  gave  lessons 

88 


J-iO  M  A  Kl  K-ANn  )I\  KTVK. 

to  jMurie-Aiitoiiiotte  {recalllnf/  the  thouyhos  of  /i,:.T 
chihlhood) : — 

lo  perdei  :  laugusta  figl'a  .  .   , 

JKAN-JACQUES  KoussKAu.  Tliuiik  God,  the  queen 
does  not  imitate  Madame  Dubany;  she  does  not 
drag  a  negro  at  the  skirt  of  her  robe;  she  does  not 
come  here,  for  a  wornout  wanton. 

THE  QUEEN.  Aiid  wliat  does  she  do  here  ? 

JEAN-JACQUES  EoussEAu.  She  conies  here  to  revive 
tlie  recollections  of  her  childhood  ;  she  comes  to  for- 
get the  golden  cares  of  a  throne.  These  rustic  en- 
joyments have  been  always  to  the  taste  of  a  court : 
the  shepherdess  alwaj's  dreams  of  the  happiness  of 
a  queen,  queens  seek  the  happiness  of  shei)herdesses. 
Tender  Louis  XIY.,  the  same  taste  prevailed ;  read 
the  memoirs  of  Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier.  Fur 
tlie  regency,  behold  the  rustic  masques  of  Watteau. 

THE  QUEEN.  These  cottages  are  quite  a  village  ;  what 
is  the  village  for  ? 

JEAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU.  It  is  a  scliool  of  good  gov- 
ernment {.wiiUng  maliciously).  Unfortunately  for 
royalty,  the  king  is  always  de  troj)  in  this  village. 
"When  tlie  king  is  away,  everything  goes  on  famous- 
ly :  when  he  is  present,  it  is  all  over ;  there  is  no  more 
laughing,  no  more  singing,  there  is  no  more  happi- 
ness. Yonder  is  the  Marlborough  tower ;  but  when 
raadnme  ascends  her  Unnei\  it  is  to  see  that  the  king 


IS  not  coTnmor. 


THE  QUEEN  {somcwitat  distuvljed).    Isn't   there  a 
theatre. 
JEAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU.  Yes,  as  if  the  farce  played 


SCENE    FIFTH.  417 

at  court  was  not  enough  !  "When  a  woman  has  the 
misfortune  to  be  a  queen,  she  becomes  so  wearied  of 
har  station,  that  she  tries  constantly  to  disguise  lierself 
as  a  shepherdess,  sometimes  as  an  actress ;  but  she 
may  do  her  best,  it  is  the  same  heart  that  grows 
weary,  and  searches  everywhere. 

THE  QUEEN.  For  wluvt  docs  she  search? 

jEAN-.rACQCES  KoussEAu.  For  that  which  can  not  be 
found  at  the  court ;  liberty,  love,  solitude,  all  that 
constitutes  happiness  here  below,  or  rather  the  shad- 
ow of  happiness. 

THE  QUEiiN.  Is  there  not  the  same  happiness  at  court 
as  elsewhere  ? 

JEAN-JACQUES  KOUSSEAU.  At  the  court  there  is  noth- 
ing to  be  found  but  pleasure  ;  and  if  happiness,  as 
the  wise  man  has  said,  is  a  diamond,  pleasure  is  only 
a  drop  of  water  {tinging  Osvound  to  look  at  the  mcadr 
oio).  It  might  be  said  truly  that  happiness  dwells 
here.  The  Trianon  is  an  Eden,  where  there  is  noth- 
ing wanting  but  the  apple  to  pluck.  This  place  con- 
soles me  somewhat  for  the  park  of  Le  N6tre. 

TMK  QUEEN.  What!  is  not  then  the  splendor  of  Ver- 
sailles to  vonr  taste  ? 

JEAN-JACQUES  KOUSSEAU.  I  can  not  feel  at  my  easo 
there  ;  its  formal  magnificence,  its  trees  cut  to  meas- 
ure, its  fountains  imprisoned  in  marble,  all  its  choice 
wonders  are  not  in  my  way.  1  can  not  breathe  fively 
thei-e,  I  who  am  imt  clothed  in  purple.  I  am  always 
afraid  of  meeting  there  a  haughty  and  foolish  court, 
that  would  laugh  at  my  threadljare  coat  and  my  pen- 
sive air,  or  rather  I  am  always  in  fear  of  meeting  ono 
of  Le  Notre's  ganleners,  ready  to  cut  my  hair,  and 
trim  my  beard,  as  if  I  were  some  wild  tree.     At  least, 


i4S  MAKIP>ANTOINH-TTE. 

Uicre  is  aii  illusion  about  an  English  garden,  the  freo 
doni  that  the  trees  seem  to  have  of  <2;rowiii<r  as  thcv 
please,  without  having  to  submit  to  the  sacrilege  of 
the  pruning-knifo,  nuikes  me  imagine  I  am  at  liberty, 
I  come  and  go  like  a  lord  in  liis  manor,  for  when  I 
see  nature  as  God  has  created  it,  I  fancy  myself  at 
home.    It  is  there  where  I  build  my  castles  in  the  air. 

tup:  queen.  1  understand  you ;  but  why  do  you 
fear  and  fly  from  all  who  are  clothed  in  purple  ? 
Kings  are  more  to  be  pitied  than  feared. 

.JEAN-JACQL'KS  KoussEAu.  It  is  clcar,  that  they  are 
feared,  avoided.  Why  should  they  be  pitied  ?  Gild- 
ed misfortunes  awaken  no  pity. 

THE  QUEEN.  You  are  a  republican,  sir ;  it  is  on  this 
account  that  yon  hate  kings. 

JEAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU.  Oil,  madamc !  I  do  not 
luite  even  my  enemies,  notwithstanding  they  have 
done  me  deep  wrong. 

THE  QUEEN  {lolth  a  suvpHsed  look).  You,  sir! 
Are  you  a  king,  then  ?  [recovering  herself).  Enemies ! 
he  need  have  none  who  does  not  wish  them.  It  is  a 
glory.  Permit  me  to  pay  my  obeisance  to  you  ;  per- 
mit me  at  the  same  time  to  ask  you  your  name. 

JEAN-JACQUES  KoussEAu  {^mth  (t proucl  looJv).  My 
name  is  not  a  mystery;  perhaps  you  may  liave  heard 
me  spoken  of.  I  am  Jean-Jaccpies  Rousseau,  a 
citizen  of  Geneva. 

THE  QUEEN.  Jcan-Jacques  Rousseau !  say  rather  a 
citizen  of  the  world. 

JEAN-JACQUES    ROUSSEAU.     A    llttlc    HOlsC,    a    littlo 

smoke,  a  little  dust,  that  is  all. 

THE  QUEEN.  That  is  the  history  of  kings. 

JEAN-JACQUES     ROUSSEAU.      YoU     SJiCak     tOO     lUUCb 


SCENE    FIFTH.  44b 

of  kiii^s  not  to  belong  to  the  court.  {Looking  ai  the 
q^teen  and  hesitating.)  I  did  not  think  that  tlie  queen 
was  here 

THE  QUEEN.  She  does  not  wish  to  be  considered  as 
here. 

JEAN-JACQUES  KoussEAU.  I  aiii  tar  from  comphiinlng. 
I  liave  got  rid  of  a  prejudice 

THE  QUEEN.  You  will  love  kiugs. 

JEAN-JACQUES  RoussEAL'.  I  will  love  the  queen. 

THE  QUEKN.  As  slic  is  lovcd  at  court. 

J  KAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU.  Better.  Sincerely,  deeply, 
until  that  day  when  the  philosophers  shall  have 
thrown  the  last  spadeful  of  earth  on  my  grave.  Like 
the  Trappists,  this  has  been  their  only  cry  of  friend- 
ship :  Brother,  thou  must  die.  Thus,  I  do  not  like 
Pascal,  see  an  abyss  before  mc;  I  see  an  open  grave. 
I  have  no  longer  a  place  in  the  scene.  The  priests 
the  ]»arliaiiient,  the  philosophers,  have  said  to  me,  as 
to  another  wandering  Jew:  Go,  aiid  stop  not!  Pro- 
scril)ed,  banished,  driven  out,  this  has  been  the  re- 
ward of  my  Works.  And,  God  is  my  witness,  I 
thought  I  was  teaching  mankind  love  and  truth. 
J>iind  man  that  I  was!  I  struggled  with  the  great 
and  the  lies  of  the  world,  without  taking  the  time  to 
struggle  against  my  own  miseries.  A  poor  star-gazer 
that  falls  into  the  well!  I  was  thinking  of  the  lil'e 
of  others  without  thinking  of  my  own.  How  have  I 
lived  ?  What  have  I  done  with  my  heart  and  my 
reason?  I  preached  to  the  gi-eat  family  of  maukiud, 
where  is  my  own  family?  Madness!  nuidness! 
madness ! 

Tav.  QUKKN  {to  Miulamc  <V Aflhhnar)   Tie  frightens 
T:ic  !  such  pride  and  such  misery  ! 

38* 


450  MARIE-ANTOINETTE. 

JEAN-.TACQUKS  KoussEAu  {seeing  the  projacnaflort 

pus).  There  they  are. 
THE  QUEEN.  Who  is  coiiiinpr? 

.TE.vN-JACQUES    ROUSSEAU.     All,    JOU    clo    liot    kuOW, 

tlieu  ?  Those  wlio  proscribe,  exile,  drive  me  away, 
!>r  insult  me  !     Do  you  not  see  Grimm  ? 

THE  QUEEN.  It  is  the  Abbe  de  Vermont. 

JEAN-JACQUES  ROUSSEAU.  It  is  Grimm!  it  is  Grimm  I 
I  can  see  him  well ;  I  feel  his  presence :  he  is 
breathinsx  his  hatred  into  the  air  that  I  inhale. 
{Bowing  with  profound  respect.)  May  God  protect 
France  and  the  queen  ! 

MADAME  d'adiiemar.  May  God  protect  the  queen ! 
These  philosophers  are  birds  of  ill-omen  .... 

SCENE  VI. 

THE  QUEEN   AND   MADAME   D'ADHEMAR. 

THE  QUEEN  {seeing  Jean- Jacques  withdrawing 
himself  rapidly).  There  he  goes !  IIow  wretched 
all  those  men  of  genius  are !  I  prefer  my  scejjtre  to 
theirs.  There  are,  at  least,  some  roses  in  my  ci'own 
to  conceal  the  thorns.  {Interrupting  herself)  I'y- 
the-by,  our  masquerade!  Call  back  the  fugitives.  I 
will  run  to  the  dairy. 

It  is  the  sultan  Saladin 

Who  keeps  in  his  garden 

IIow  does  my  striped  petticoat  beccme  mc? 

MADAME  d'adhemar.  In  your  turncd-up  sleeves 
you  are  admirable. 

THE  QUEEN.  Mao;nifieent !  Here  conies  the  count 
d'Artois  to  turn  the  mill  for  me.  What  a  charming 
miller!  lie  may  do  his  best  to  aifcct  the  grotesque; 
be  is  always  a  grand  lord. 


S«JKNE    xMKTH.  451 

SCENE  VII. 

THE  QUEEN,  COUNT  D'ARTOIS 

THE  QUEEX.  Atg  YOU  aloiie,  count  ? 

THE  COUNT  d'artois.  The  Coimt  de  Provence  is  rc- 
hearsing  his  part;  he  is  to  be  prompter  to-night, 

THE  QUEEx.  Is  it  to  be  the  Tempest  ? 

THE  COUNT  d'aetois.  Perhaps  ;  as  for  the  king  he 
is  amusing  himself  in  his  own  way  ;  he  has  locked 
himself  up  with  a  lock  of  his  own  manufacture. 

THE  QUEEN,  That's  fortunate;  he  will  be  happy 
then. 

THE  COUNT  d'aetois.  And  we  also.  Don't  you 
think  it  droll,  to  see  him,  whom  they  call  the  reform- 
er of  liberty,  passing  his  time  in  making  locks  ?  He 
is  a  dangerous  husband,  there  is  no  door  that  can 
resist  him. 

(The  count  goes  to  the  mill,  the  queen  to  the  dairy.) 
SCENE  VIII. 

MADAME  D'ADHKMAR,  ABBE  DE  VERMONT. 

MADAME  d'adhemar,  Is  the  abbe  going  to  mount 
the  pulpit?  there  is  his  flock  wandering  about, 

ABBE.  Let  them  make  a  farce  of  royalty,  that  may 
pass ;  but  of  heaven,  that  would  be  a  profanation. 

SCENE  IX. 

ABBE,  MADAME  D'ADHEMAR.  MADAME   DK  roi.UlNAC  '■dif.ndixd  a» 

a  conntry-glrlj. 

MADAME  DE  I'oi.KiNAc.  ^Fv  innoceiicB  is  something 
of  a  load,  abbe,  but  it  ought  to  l)e  ])n)claimed  aloud  ; 
you  fsliould  crown  mo  with  a  wrc^atli  of  msos. 


452  MAlilK-AXrOTXKTTE. 

ABBE.  I  am  proud  of  the  ])rivilege  ;  in  crowning 
YOU  I  will  imitate  Providence,  who  lius  put  upon 
your  brow  the  crown  of  p:lory  and  of  beauty. 

:srADAMK  DK  poLiGNAC.  No  ouc  could  be  more  gal- 
lant.    What  an  agreeable  surprise  ! 

SCENE  X. 

TUE  PRECEDING,  THE  COUNT  DE  PROVENCE  (ns  a  shepherd), 
THE  PRINCESS  DE  LAMEALI.E  (as  nsJtfpherdcss). 

THK    COUNT   DE    1>K0YEXCK. 
A  crook  as  a  sce|iric  I  wield, 

Away  with  the  fleurs-de-lis  ; 
The  violet  fresh  from  the  field, 
Is  sweeter,  far  swectf.T  to  me. 

MADAMK    DE    I'OLIGNAC.     YoU    ai'C    right,  COUUt,  tho 

violet  is  adorable  .  .  . 

COUNT  DE  PKOVENCE.  As  love  that  hides  itself. 

MADAME  DE  POLiGNAC.  I  makc  no  comparisons.  I 
am  no  poet,  not  I ;  I  do  not  improvise,  I  have  neitl>er 
rliyme  nor  reason  at  my  command. 

THE   COUNT   DE   PROVENCE. 
Game  of  verse  you  wish  to  play, 

Tf  play  I  do,  sweet  Sn/.on  ; 
You'll  be  the  rhyme  of  the  lay, 

I,  the  love  and  the  reason. 

SCENE  XI. 

THE  PRECEDING.  THE  QUEEN,  THE  COUNT  D'ARTOIS. 

THE  QUEEN  {with  a  uhephfnVs  horn  i7i  her  hand, 
addressing  Count  d'ArtoU).  Shepherd,  it  is  not  time 
vet  to  begin  making  love  ;  hei-e  is  your  horn,  that 
vou  left  T  will  ii«>t  f^av  where. 


SCENE   EI.KVENTn.  453 

THE  COUNT  d'aktois.  Ill  tliG  boutlolr  of  a  'bcaTitifnl 
duchess. 

THE  QUEEN.  Call  iiouie  tliG  COWS,  it  is  time  to  milk 
them  ;  see,  I  am  all  ready ;  Jeanneton  will  come  willi 
the  pails. 

THE  COUNT  TIE  PKOVENCE.  CoHie,  daughters  of  lo, 
the  whitest  hands  in  the  world  {sj^caking  to  the 
Duchess  de  Polignac^  and  to  the  Princess  de  Lam- 
halle)^  I  mean  yours,  too,  are  going  to  milk  you. 

THE  QUEEN.  Be  simplv  a  shepherd  and  not  a  poet 
too.  Do  vdu  think  the  cows  understand  such  lan- 
guage ?  Call  Eed  Coat,  call  Brownie,  call  ]\Iolly. 
Don't  von  see  thev  are  coming  already  !  Miller,  is 
your  iiour  ground  ?  Come,  come,  we  will  have  a 
feast  on  the  grass,  and  a  ball  in  the  meadow.  Abbe, 
go  get  your  violin  and  your  bagpipes  ;  tell  the  Connt 
de  Yandreuil  and  the  Dncliess  de  Coigny,  to  come 
lierc.  For  a  gtxxi  country-dance  we  mnst  have  moi-e 
dancers.  {Sechg  the  king  ajjproach.)  Oh !  t^e 
king  is  C'Huing.  (She  gnnvs  ixde  and  lets  fall  her 
hands  Ijy  her  side.) 

THE  COUNT  d'artois.  It  is  ennui  that  is  coming  ;  I 
will  go  to  the  mill. 

the    PltlNCESS    DE    LAMBALLE.     I    wili    gO    milk    lUV 

cows. 

MADAME  DE  poLiGNAc.  I  will  go  aiid  get  crowncd 
with  ruses. 

THE  QUEEN  {to  Madame  dJ'Ad\<imar).  IlmTy,  Jean 
ncton,  we  have  no  time  to  lo.-.e.     {To  the  (hnint  dc 
Prori?.7ice)     Shepherd,  let  t?'.e  king  pass;   in  hall" an 
liour,  we  will  have  our  feast  ujton  the  grass.     Of . 
compose  some  couplets. 


454  MAUIK-ANTOTNKTTE. 

THE    COl'NT    DE    rUOYEXCR. 
I  CO  wherever  slie'll  Ic&d, 

Singing  her  beauty  that  glows  ', 
Oh  may-  jiot  I  he  the  weed, 

She  treadsuiKieriootp*  she  goes. 

(They  all  go*  oft.) 
SCENE  LAST. 

TIIK  KING,  Tlir,  QL'I>F.N  concealed. 

THE  KING,  rtliouglit  they- were  all  there,  the  over- 
grown children,  {lie  taJies  his  seat.)  What  have  1 
clone  tliis  evcnino-? 

ruK  QUEEN  {in  a  low  voice  to  herself).  Nothing. 

THE  KING.  AVliat  did  I  do  this  morning? 

THE  QUEEN  {to  herself).  IS'othing. 

THE  KING.  I  am  hnngry  ;  but  at  the  Trianon  there 
is  nothing  but  milk  and  cheese,  butter  and  strawber- 
ries; I  might  as  well  drink  so  much  water.  {Loolc- 
incj  at  the  fiocks  of  sheep  scattered  aho^it).  There 
are,  however,  some  fine  nmtton-cliops  fattening  yon- 
der. 

THE  QUEEN.  Oil,  Jcan-Jacqucs !  Jean-Jacques !  I 
am  miserable  now. 

THE  KING.  My  ministers  have  been  advising  me  a 
long  time  in  regard  to  this  affair!  France,  Prussia, 
Austria  ....  (a  moment  of  silence).  France,  Spain, 
England  ....(«  moment  of  silence).  In  order  to 
govern  this  kingdom  properly  ....  {The  hing  falls 
asleej)) 

THE  QUEEN  {withdrawhirj).  May  God  protect 
.France ! 


^ 


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